fully
in their possession, there is sudden turmoil and excitement among the
blue-coats gathered around an old brick building near the western edge.
There is rushing to and fro; then savage exclamations, shouts of "Kill
him!" "Hang him!" "Run him down to the creek and duck him!" and the
brigade commander, with Major Abbot and one or two other mounted
officers, has quite as much as he can do to rescue from the hands of an
infuriated horde of soldiers a bruised, battered, slouching hulk of a
man in a dingy Confederate uniform. He implores their protection, and it
is only when they see the piteous, haggard, upturned face, and hear the
wail of his voice, that Putnam and Abbot recognize the deserter, Rix.
Abbot is off his horse and by his side in an instant. Sternly ordering
back the men who had grappled and were dragging him, the major holds
Rix by the coat-collar and gazes at him in silent amaze.

"In God's name, how came you here, and in this garb?" he finally asks.

Weak with sickness, suffering, and the horrible fright he has undergone,
the bully of former days simply shudders and cringes now. He crouches at
Abbot's feet, gazing fearfully around him at the circle of vengeful,
powder-blackened faces.

"Don't let them touch me, Mr. Abbot! Oh, for God's sake help me. I'm
'most dead, anyhow. I can't talk now. We're 'most starved, too, and
Mr. Hollins is dying."

"Hollins!" exclaims Abbot, almost losing his hold on the collar and
dropping the limp creature to earth. "What do you mean? where?"

"In there; in the bedroom up-stairs. Oh, major, don't leave me here;
these men will murder me!" he implores, clutching the skirts of Abbot's
heavy overcoat; but Colonel Putnam signals "Go on," and, leaving his
abject prisoner, Abbot hastens up the stairs of the old brick house, and
there, in a low-ceilinged room, stretched upon the bed, with wild,
wandering eyes and fevered lips, with features drawn and ghastly, lies
the man who has so bitterly sinned against him, and whom he has so
often longed to meet eye to eye--but not this way.

And it is an awful look of recognition that greets him, too. Shot
through and through as he is, tortured with thirst and suffering,
praying for help and longing for the sight of some friendly face, it
seems a retribution almost too cruel that, in his extreme hour, the man
sent by Heaven to minister to his needs should be the one he has so
foully wronged, the one of whom he lives in dread. He covers hi