dying. People ought to do things when the dying ask them to."

Stafford looked behind him, then down again. "Do what? Quick! They're
coming."

The hand would not relax its clasp, but its fellow fumbled at the grey
jacket. "It's my letter. They won't know if they don't get it. My side
hurts, but it don't hurt like knowing they won't know ... that I was
sorry." The face worked. "It's here but I can't--Please get it--"

"You must let me go," said Stafford, and tried to unclasp the hand.
"Stay any longer and I will be killed or taken."

The hand closed desperately, both hands now. "For God's sake! I don't
believe you've got so hard a heart. Take it and stamp it and mail it. If
they don't know they'll never understand and I'll die knowing they'll
never understand. For God's sake!"

Stafford knelt beside him, opened the grey jacket, and took out the
letter. Blood was upon it, but the address was legible. "Die easy. I'll
stamp and mail it. I will send a word with it, too, if you like."

A light came into the boy's face. "Tell them that I was like the
prodigal son, but that I'm going home--I'm going home--"

The arms fell, the breast ceased to heave, the head drew backward. Death
came and stamped the light upon the face. Before Stafford could get to
his feet, the blue wave had plunged into the trough. He remembered using
his pistol, and he remembered a dizziness of being borne backward. He
remembered that a phrase had gone through his mind "the instability of
all material things." Then came a blank. He did not assume that he had
lost consciousness, but simply he could not remember. He had been
wrecked in a turbulent, hostile ocean. It had made him and others
captives, and now they were together at a place which he remembered was
called the Roulette House. An hour might have passed, two hours; he
really could not tell. There were a number of prisoners, most of them
badly wounded. They lay in the back yard of the place, on the steps of
out-houses, with blue soldiers for guards. A surgeon came through the
yard, and helped a little the more agonizedly hurt. He glanced at
Stafford's star and sash, came across and offered to bind up the cut
across his forehead. "An awful field," he said. "This war is getting
horrible. You're a Virginian, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Used to know a lot of Virginia doctors. Liked them first rate! Now we
are enemies, and it seems to me a pity. Guess it's as Shakespeare says,
'What fools these morta