e those of a stage negro. There was blood upon his
forehead.

The staff officer drew back a pace, the orderly two paces.

"What are you doing here, my man?" said the colonel, unmoved.

"This house belongs to me, sir," was the reply, civilly delivered.

"To you? Ah, I see! And these?"

"My wife and child. I am Captain Coulter."

THE COUP DE GRACE

The fighting had been hard and continuous; that was attested by all the
senses. The very taste of battle was in the air. All was now over; it
remained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead--to "tidy up a
bit," as the humorist of a burial squad put it. A good deal of "tidying
up" was required. As far as one could see through the forests, among the
splintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. Among them moved the
stretcher-bearers, gathering and carrying away the few who showed signs
of life. Most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right to
minister to their wants was in dispute. It is an army regulation that
the wounded must wait; the best way to care for them is to win the
battle. It must be confessed that victory is a distinct advantage to a
man requiring attention, but many do not live to avail themselves of it.

The dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side by
side in rows while the trenches were dug to receive them.

Some, found at too great a distance from these rallying points, were
buried where they lay. There was little attempt at identification,
though in most cases, the burial parties being detailed to glean the
same ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of the victorious
dead were known and listed. The enemy's fallen had to be content with
counting. But of that they got enough: many of them were counted several
times, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of the
victorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result.

At some little distance from the spot where one of the burial parties
had established its "bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform of a
Federal officer stood leaning against a tree. From his feet upward to
his neck his attitude was that of weariness reposing; but he turned his
head uneasily from side to side; his mind was apparently not at rest. He
was perhaps uncertain in which direction to go; he was not likely to
remain long where he was, for already the level rays of the setting sun
straggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the weary
soldi