"Here! Quick! Get the surgeon. We forgot his wounds. He is shot in the leg and here----" Griffith was easing the poor fellow down as he talked, trying to get him into a better position. Some one offered him a canteen. The surgeon came and began cutting the boot from the swollen leg. "Do _everything_ for him, Doctor--everything you would for me," said Griffith hoarsely. "He killed his friend and risked his own life to save me. He----" His voice broke and he walked away into the darkness. Presently Lengthy opened his eyes and asked feebly, "Whar's the Parson?" "Who?" "The Parson." "Oh," said the surgeon kindly, "you want the Chaplain. Oh, you're not going to die! You're all right! You've lost a lot of blood and stood on that leg too long, but----" "Whah's Parson Dav'npoht?" A light dawned upon the surgeon. He had never thought of Griffith as a clergyman only as he had heard it laughed over that the General swore so continuously in his presence. He sent for Griffith. When he came Lengthy saw that his eyes were red. He motioned the others to go away. Then he whispered, "Th' other fellers--our soldiers--th----" "You mean the Confederate troops, the Southern men?" asked Griffith, and Lengthy nodded; "Jest over yander. Layin' fer ye." "I looked everywhere for smoke, Lengthy. I didn't see any signs of camp fires. I----" "Jest what me an' Whis was doin' fer t'other side when we seed ye. Hain't got no fires. Hain't goin't' make none." "Do you mean that you were doing a sort of scout or advance duty for the reb--the Confederates, when you met us, Lengthy?" He nodded. "Jest thet." "You were to go back and tell them about----" "We wus. Saw you. Didn't go. Him 'n me qua'l'd 'bout----" "About shooting me?" Lengthy nodded again. "He aimed at ye. I got him fust." There was a long pause. "Do you want to go back to your camp, Lengthy, if--" "Naw." Presently he said: "They's mo' o' them then they is o' you alls." Griffith grasped his idea. "You think we better leave here? You think they will attack?" "Kin leave me layin' here. They'll git me--'n' _him_;" he pointed with his thumb again toward the friend of his life--the body that lay awaiting burial on the morrow. "Would you rather go with us?" began Griffith, and the swarthy face lightened up. "Kin you alls take me?" "Certainly, certainly, if you want to go. We won't leave you. The General----" "Hain't goin' with him. Goin' 'th you." "All right, all right, Lengthy. You shall go with _me_ and you shall _stay_ with me." The mountaineer turned his head slowly. The narcotic the surgeon had given was overcoming him. He did not understand it, and he was vainly struggling against a sleep which he did not comprehend. "You--alls--better--light--out. They is mo' o' them and--they--is mad--plum--through. Few--words--com--com----"