de a man's
stomach, working and kneading the bowels as though they were dough. Now
and then four negro troopers would appear with something in a blanket,
would walk around the tent where there was a long trench, and, standing
at the head of this, two would lift up their ends of the blanket and the
other two would let go, and a shapeless shape would drop into the
trench. Up and down near by strolled two young Lieutenants, smoking
cigarettes--calmly, carelessly. He could see all this, but that was all
right; that was all right! Everything was all right except that long,
black shape in the shadow near him gasping:

"Water! water! water!"

He could not stand that hoarse, rasping whisper much longer. His canteen
he had clung to--the regular had taught him that--and he tried again to
move. A thousand needles shot through him--every one, it seemed, passing
through a nerve-centre and back the same path again. He heard his own
teeth crunch as he had often heard the teeth of a drunken man crunch,
and then he became unconscious. When he came to, the man was still
muttering; but this time it was a woman's name, and Crittenden lay
still. Good God!

"Judith--Judith--Judith!" each time more faintly still. There were other
Judiths in the world, but the voice--he knew the voice--somewhere he had
heard it. The moon was coming; it had crossed the other man's feet and
was creeping up his twisted body. It would reach his face in time, and,
if he could keep from fainting again, he would see.

"Water! water! water!"

Why did not some one answer? Crittenden called and called and called;
but he could little more than whisper. The man would die and be thrown
into that trench; or _he_ might, and never know! He raised himself on
one elbow again and dragged his quivering body after it; he clinched his
teeth; he could hear them crunching again; he was near him now; he would
not faint; and then the blood gushed from his mouth and he felt the
darkness coming again, and again he heard:

"Judith--Judith!"

Then there were footsteps near him and a voice--a careless voice:

"He's gone."

He felt himself caught, and turned over; a hand was put to his heart for
a moment and the same voice:

"Bring in that other man; no use fooling with this one."

When the light came back to him again, he turned his head feebly. The
shape was still there, but the moonlight had risen to the dead man's
breast and glittered on the edge of something that was clinc