Thus the hours wore on, and night spread her veil over the ghastly forms that lay scattered over the hill-top and in the trenches. Very soon the wounds began to grow stiff, and fever ran like fire through their veins. Nakamura’s sobbing had ceased, and his face was rigid in death. Kimura rambled in his talk and cried for water to quench the fires within. Sato lay back, and would have groaned in his agony but for the presence of his comrades--the Russians. They understood, for one of them rose, and taking three wooden bottles, pointed to the valley. He would fetch water for his comrades--the wounded Japanese. Now every man in that little group knew the risk of such an enterprise, for he was aware that the hill was in dispute, and that Russians and Japanese were watching for any sign that might betray the presence of the enemy. The Russian soldier walked to the brow of the hill, and looked cautiously about him. Nothing was to be seen save the forms of dead men and the blackness of the valley. Though he stepped warily, his feet often slipped in pools of blood, and stumbled into holes dug by high explosive shells. His comrades watched him disappear over the crest, and waited. The minutes passed with painful slowness. Not a sound broke the stillness. He must have reached the foot of the hill. Even now he might be filling the water bottles from the shallow stream below. Perhaps he was returning, and this terrible thirst would end. They strained their ears to catch the first sound of a footfall. What was that? A shot rang out, and pierced the darkness like an arrow that quivered in their hearts. Then all was silence again. The wounded men held their breath and listened. No sound came from hill or valley, and they feared greatly for the brave man who had risked his life. Long they watched and waited, none daring to give voice to his fears. He would never return, for in the valley he lay close to the stream, with a bullet through his heart. Kimura’s ravings had lapsed into unconsciousness, and Sato moaned aloud. From the little group rose another figure, stalwart and bearded. Without a word or a sign he departed. His comrades seemed unconscious of his movement, yet they felt that he had taken upon himself the agony of their thirst. He passed from the hill and vanished in the darkness, following the steps of his comrade. Hope revived in the breasts of those who watched and waited. Surely, he would return. Harm could not come to a brave man who risked his life for his enemy. Again that terrible note--sharp and clear--the note of a Russian rifle. He, too, would never return. The bullet of a comrade had dyed the stream with his blood, and the half-filled water bottles floated by.