Footsteps approached again and Crittenden turned his head.
"Why, he isn't dead!"
It was Willings, the surgeon he had known at Chickamauga, and Crittenden
called him by name.
"No, I'm not dead--I'm not going to die."
Willings gave an exclamation of surprise.
"Well, there's grit for you," said the other surgeon. "We'll take him
next."
"Straighten him out there, won't you?" said Crittenden, gently, as
the two men stooped for him.
"Don't put him in there, please," nodding toward the trench behind the
tents; "and mark his grave, won't you, Doctor? He's my bunkie."
"All right," said Willings, kindly.
"And Doctor, give me that--what he has in his hand, please. I know
her."
* * * * *
A tent at Siboney in the fever-camp overlooking the sea.
"Judith! Judith! Judith!"
The doctor pointed to the sick man's name.
"Answer him?"
But the nurse would not call his name.
"Yes, dear," she said, gently; and she put one hand on his forehead and
the other on the hand that was clinched on his breast. Slowly his hand
loosened and clasped hers tight, and Crittenden passed, by and by, into
sleep. The doctor looked at him closely.
He had just made the rounds of the tents outside, and he was marvelling.
There were men who had fought bravely, who had stood wounds and the
surgeon's knife without a murmur; who, weakened and demoralized by fever
now, were weak and puling of spirit, and sly and thievish; who would
steal the food of the very comrades for whom a little while before they
had risked their lives--men who in a fortnight had fallen from a high
plane of life to the pitiful level of brutes. Only here and there was an
exception. This man, Crittenden, was one. When sane, he was gentle,
uncomplaining, considerate. Delirious, there was never a plaint in his
voice; never a word passed his lips that his own mother might not hear;
and when his lips closed, an undaunted spirit kept them firm.
"Aren't you tired?"
The nurse shook her head.
"Then you had better stay where you are; his case is pretty serious.
I'll do your work for you."
The nurse nodded and smiled. She was tired and worn to death, but she
sat as she was till dawn came over the sea, for the sake of the girl,
whose fresh young face she saw above the sick man's heart. And she knew
from the face that the other woman would have watched just that way for
her.