gave out long ago, so we're taking U.
S. blankets--"

Four men, carrying by the corners a blanket with an unconscious man upon
it, came into the room. The Confederate officers looked. "No, I don't
know him. Why, wait--Yes, I do! It's Clitz--Clitz that was so young and
red-cheeked and our pet at the Point!... Yes, and one day in Mexico his
regiment filed past, going into a fight, and he looked so like a gallant
boy that I prayed to God that Clitz might not be hurt!... Reid, have him
put in a room here! See that Dr. Mott sees him at once.--O God, Cary,
this fratricidal war! Fighting George Sykes all day, and now this boy--"

"Yes," said Cary. "Once to-day I was opposed to Fitz John Porter. He
looked at me out of a cloud, and I looked at him out of one, and the
battle roared between. I always liked him." He walked across the room,
looked out of the window upon the battlefield, and came back. "But," he
said grimly, "it is a war of invasion. What do you think is wrong with
Jackson?"

The other looked at him with his fine, kindly eyes. "Why, let me tell
you, Cary,--since it won't go any further,--I am as good a Presbyterian
as he is, but I think he has prayed too much."

"I see!" said Cary. "Well, I would be willing to put up a petition of my
own just now.--Delay! Delay! We have set opportunity against a wall and
called out the firing party." He rose. "Thanks for the biscuits. I feel
another man. I'll go now and look after my wounded. There are enough of
them, poor souls!"

Another stir occurred at the door. The aide appeared. "They've taken
some prisoners in the wood at the foot of the hill, sir. One of them
says he's General Reynolds--"

"Reynolds! Good God, Reynolds! Bring him in--"

General Reynolds came in. "Reynolds!"--"Hill!"--"How are you,
Reynolds?"--"Good Lord, it's Fauquier Cary!"

The aide put a chair. The prisoner sank into it and covered his face
with his hands. Presently he let them drop. "Hill, we ought not to be
enemies! Messmates and tent-mates for a year!... It's ghastly."

"I'll agree with you there, Reynolds. It's ghastlier than ghastly.--You
aren't hurt?"

Outside, over the great hilltop upon which Richard Cleave was moving,
the darkness might be felt. The air smelled strongly of burned powder,
was yet thickened by smoke. Where fires had been kindled, the ruddy
light went up like pillars to sustain a cloudy roof. There were
treetops, burnished, high in air; then all the land fell to the swam