I was not afraid,"--looking up anxiously;
"but"--

"But the Doctor had left him, and, kneeling down in the mud, was turning
the wounded Confederate over on his back, that he might see his face.

The boy saw him catch up his lantern and peer eagerly at him with
shortened breath.

"What is it? Is he dead?"

"No, not dead,"--putting down the lantern.

But very near it, this man, John Gurney,--so near that it needed no deed
of Blecker's to make him pass the bound. Only a few moments' neglect. A
bandage, a skilful touch or two, care in the hospitals, might save him.

But what claim had he on Paul that he should do this? For a moment the hot
blood in the little Doctor's veins throbbed fiercely, as he rose slowly,
and, taking his lantern, stood looking down.

"In an hour," glancing critically at him, "he will be dead."

Something within him coolly added, "And Paul Blecker a murderer."

But he choked it down, and picked his steps through scorched winter
stubble, dead horses, men, wagon-wheels, across the field; thinking, as he
went, of Grey free, his child-love, true, coaxing, coming to his tired
arms once more; of the home on the farm yonder, he meant to buy,--he, the
rough, jolly farmer, and she, busy Grey, bustling Grey, with her loving,
fussing ways. Why, it came like a flash to him! Yet, as it came, tugging
at his heart with the whole strength of his blood, he turned, this poor,
thwarted, passionate little Doctor, and began jogging back to the
locust-woods,--passing many wounded men of his own kith and spirit, and
going back to Gurney.

Because--he was his enemy.

"Thank God, I am not utterly debased!"--grinding the tobacco vehemently in
his teeth.

He walked faster, seeing that the moon was going down, leaving the
battle-field in shadow. Overhead, the sinking light, striking upward from
the horizon, had worked the black dome into depths of fretted silver.
Blecker saw it, though passion made his step unsteady and his eye dim. No
man could do a mean, foul deed while God stretched out such a temple-roof
as that for his soul to live in, was the thought that dully touched his
outer consciousness. But little Grey! If he could go home to her
to-morrow, and, lifting her thin, tired face from the machine, hold it to
his breast, and say, "You're free now, forever!" O God!

He stopped, pulling his coat across his breast in his clenched
hands,--then, after a moment, went on, his arms falling powerless.

"I'm a child!