ss Irene, he was
shot in the breast."

"You know the way; ride outside; and, Cyrus, drive as fast as possible."

By the glimmer of the carriage lamps she could see the wagons going to and
fro, some filled with empty coffins, some with mangled sufferers. Now and
then weary, spent soldiers sat on the roadside, or struggled on toward the
city which they had saved, with their arms in slings, or hands bound up, or
bloody bandages across their stern faces. After another hour, when the
increasing number of men showed proximity to the scene of danger, Cyrus
turned away from the beaten track, and soon the flash of lights and the hum
of voices told that they were near the place of destination. The carriage
stopped, and Cyrus came to the door.

"We are at the lines, and I can't drive any nearer. If you will wait, I
will go and find master."

The delay seemed intolerably long, and for the first time an audible moan
escaped Irene just as Cyrus came back accompanied by a muffled figure.

"Irene, my child."

She leaned out till her face nearly touched Dr. Arnold's.

"Only tell me that he is alive, and I can bear all else."

"He is alive, and sleeping just now. Can you control yourself if I take you
to him?"

"Yes; you need not fear that I will disturb him. Let me go to him."

He gave her his arm, and led her through the drizzling rain for some
distance--avoiding, as much as possible, the groups of wounded, where
surgeons were at their sad work. Finally, before a small tent, he paused,
and whispered--

"Nerve yourself, dear child."

"Is there no hope?"

She swept aside her long mourning veil, and gazed imploringly into his
face.

Tears filled his eyes, and hastily averting his head, he raised the curtain
of the tent and drew her inside.

A candle burned dimly in one corner, and there, on a pallet of straw, over
which a blanket had been thrown, lay the powerful form of the dauntless
leader, whose deeds of desperate daring had so electrified his worshipping
command but a few hours before. The noble head was pillowed on a knapsack;
one hand pressed his heart, while the other drooped nerveless at his side,
and the breast of his coat was saturated with blood, which at intervals
oozed through the bandages and dripped upon the straw. The tent was silent
as a cemetery, and not a sound passed Irene's white, fixed lips as she bent
down and looked upon the loved face, strangely beautiful in its pallid
repose. The shadowy wings