It was Chalmers, a young
Southerner, driven by poverty at home and prospect of adventure abroad
to seek service in the cavalry. It was practically his first campaign,
and in all human probability his last. Consciousness had left him
hours ago, and his vagrant spirit was fast loosing every earthly bond,
and already, in fierce dreamings, at war with unseen and savage foe
over their happy hunting grounds in the great Beyond. Near him,
equally sheltered, yet further toward the dim and pallid light, lay
Wren, his strong Scotch features pinched and drawn with pain and loss
of blood and lack of food. Fever there was little left, there was so
little left for it to live upon. Weak and helpless as a child in arms
he lay, inert and silent. There was nothing he could do. Never a
quarter hour had passed since he had been forced to lie there that
some one of his devoted men had not bathed his forehead and cooled his
burning wounds with abundant flow of blessed water. Twice since his
gradual return to consciousness had he asked for Blakely, and had
bidden him sit and tell him of Sandy, asking for tidings of Angela,
and faltering painfully as he bethought himself of the last
instructions he had given. How could Blakely be supposed to know aught
of her or of the household bidden to treat him practically as a
stranger? Now, he thought it grand that the Bugologist had thrown all
consideration of peril to the wind and had hastened to their aid to
share their desperate fortunes.
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