at the sunlit scene, wishing that the
war was over, and that he could go back to the dear old manor house, and
enjoy the pleasures of home and peace.

How beautiful it all looked, the golden sunshine glorifying the
oak-trees with their tender leaves, and turning the pine trunks
bronze-red! The films of wood smoke from the camp-fires spread in a
pale blue vapour, and the babbling stream flashed. But, restful as the
scene was, and pleasant as the reclining posture was to his aching
bones, Fred did not feel happy, for he knew that not far away men were
lying in fever and weariness, cut, stabbed, trampled by horse hoof, and
shattered by bullet, many of them waiting anxiously for death, the same
death that had come upon so many of their fellows, who were lying stark
on the field, or being hastily laid in rows in their shallow grave.

"When will it all be over?" he said to himself. "I wonder where Scar
is;" and then he thought how horrible it would be if ever he were to
meet his old friend in action.

"And him with a sword in his hand and me with a sword in mine," he
muttered. "Should we fight? I suppose so," he added, after a few
moments' thought. "We are enemies now."

He started up on his elbow, for just then there was a cheer, in
salutation of a man who was coming slowly up, leading his horse; and it
only needed a second glance to show that it was Samson.

Fred forgot his weariness, sprang up, and ran toward his follower, who
caught sight of him directly, and hastened to meet him.

"Oh!" ejaculated Fred, as he drew nearer and caught sight of the man's
face. "What a horrible wound! Samson, lad, we thought you a prisoner,
or dead."

"I arn't a prisoner, because I'm here," grumbled Samson; "and I arn't
dead yet, thank ye, Master Fred."

"But your wound. Come on to the surgeon at once."

"My wound, sir?"

"Yes. Your face looks terrible. How did you manage to get here?"

"Face looks terrible--manage to get here! I'll tell you, sir. A big
fellow with a broad grey hat and feathers, and all long hair and ragged
lace, spurred at me, and, if I hadn't been tidy sharpish, he'd have rode
me down. Hit at me, too, he did, with his sword, and caught me on the
shoulder, but it didn't cut through the leather; and, 'fore he could get
another cut at me, I give him a wipe on the head as made him rise up in
his sterrups and hit at me with his fist."

"His fist, Samson?"

"Yes, sir. There was his sword in it, of c