"I will do all I can for you. But your name--I must have that," said Deck. The captain had fallen back, and the eyes were becoming glassy. "Perhaps he had better have some more liquor, Life," he cried. "My name is Paul--my name is Pa--" The sufferer broke off short. In vain he tried to speak. A shudder took possession of him, and he stretched out--dead. "Gone!" muttered the tall Kentuckian. "Too bad. And only a boy, Major." Deck could not trust himself to speak. During the past two years he had seen many men die, but no death had affected him like this. Two tears stole silently down his browned cheeks. "Didn't catch his name, either?" went on Life. "No." "Then how are you going to find that sister of his?" "I don't know yet; but I will find a way--I must," was the firm answer. He felt that the dead Confederate had intrusted him with a mission that could not be ignored. Ere now the dead had been left where they had fallen, but both Deck and Life felt they could not leave this boyish captain lying in the meadow grass. Looking around, they found a trench dug through the meadow to the brook, and in a dry portion of this they deposited the body, first relieving it of a watch, a pocket-knife, and a photograph of a pleasant-looking Southern girl, presumedly Rosebel. The sods from the trench still lay upon the banks, and with these and some loose dirt they covered up the corpse. Then taking a long stick, Deck cut one end flat, and marked upon it with a heavy pencil,-- ROSEBEL'S PAUL LIES BURIED HERE. The stick was stuck at the top of the grave, and silently they mounted their horses once more and proceeded on their way. It was fully ten minutes before either of them spoke again, and then the subject was something of an entirely different nature. "Halt, Major!" It was Life who uttered the word, speaking in a whisper. The tall Kentuckian had discerned three forms moving before them in the darkness. Deck also saw them, and brought Ceph to a stop. The three forms were on foot, but whether friends or foes they could not tell. They had reached the edge of the creek, and above the spot was a patch of woods, while below was a long meadow, cut up into numerous brooks. On the opposite side of the creek was another patch of woods much denser than the first mentioned. "This is the spot, Leftenant," they heard one of the party of three remark. "Are you sure, Bolder?" came in a second voice. "Remember, you were mistaken before." "Well, I'm not mistaken now," answered Bolder. "Here is the very tree I notched." "Yes, this is the trail," came in a third voice. "And I don't believe there has been a single Yankee around." "I trust not, Peters. But we are not out of the woods yet--in more ways than one. The raft may be gone, and fording this stream in such a flood as this is entirely out of the question."