A short, whispered consultation was held.
"He's right up on that bank. There's a road up there."
Frank advanced a little; a man was lying somewhat propped up against a tree. His eyes were closed, and there was a ghastly wound in his head.
"Willy, it's a Yankee, and he's shot."
"Is he dead?" asked the others, in awed voices.
"No. Let's ask him if he's hurt much."
They all approached him. His eyes were shut and his face was ashy white.
"Willy, it's my Yankee!" exclaimed Frank.
The wounded man moved his hand at the sound of the voices.
"Water," he murmured. "Bring me water, for pity's sake!"