The wounded man opened his eyes as they laid him gently on the couch.
"It's no use bothering with me, old chap," he said, quietly. "I'm hit in a dozen places and I'm doctor enough to know that I'm going fast."
Walter buried his head by the dying man's side and sobbed dryly.
"There, there," the other said, soothingly, "don't feel bad about it. It's just what I wished for. I'm going to die like a gentleman."
Walter hushed his sobs with an effort to catch the feebly spoken words.
The wounded man's eyes closed, and Walter held his breath for a second thinking him dead, but in a moment he opened them again and smiled faintly, "There's nothing to a race but the finish," he whispered.
A little longer he lay still breathing heavily. Suddenly by a mighty effort he raised himself on his elbow, his eyes shining with a strange light. "Not guilty, your honor," he said in a firm voice, then sank back still and white.
"He's dead," said Walter, brokenly. "He had his wish; he died like a hero."
They covered the still form reverently with a blanket, and the silence of bitter grief settled on the little party. The others had not become so intimate with the dead man as Walter, but they had grown to admire him greatly, and the thought that he had given up his life in their service added to their grief.
Walter's suffering was intense and it was well that his mind was of necessity soon forced into other channels.