"Hyur's th' Doctor,"—laying them on a hillock of grass. "Uh wish ye'd see toh these pore chaps, Doctor,"—with a strong Maryland accent. "One o' them's t' other side, but"—and so left them.
One of them was a burly Western boatman, with mop-like red hair and beard. Blecker looked at him, shook his head, and went on.
"No use?"—gritting his heavy jaw. "Well!"—swallowing, as if he accepted death in that terrible breath. "Eh, Doctor? Do you hear? Wait a bit,"—fumbling at his jacket. "I can't—There's a V in my pocket. I wish you'd send it to the old woman,—mother,—Mrs. Jane Carr, Cincinnati,—with my love."
The Doctor stopped to speak to him, and then passed to the next,—a fair-haired boy, with three bullet-holes in his coat, one in his breast.
"Will I die?"—trying to keep his lips firm.
"Tut! tut! No. Only a flesh-wound. Drink that, and you'll be able to go back to the hospital,—be well in a week or two."
"I did not want to die, though I was not afraid,"—looking up anxiously; "but"—
"But the Doctor had left him, and, kneeling down in the mud, was turning the wounded Confederate over on his back, that he might see his face.
The boy saw him catch up his lantern and peer eagerly at him with shortened breath.
"What is it? Is he dead?"