And the next moment all was over. Wing sighed and turned the young soldier on his back, and straightened out his limbs and closed his eyes, placing two pennies upon the lids to keep them down. While performing these last offices he had several times touched a carbine that lay beside the dead boy. How he took it up and returned to the spot where Justin Rosenthal lay partly under the burden of the horse. “Oh, my Colonel! I have been away so long! But I found a dying soldier, moaning for water, before I found the carbine. And I had to minister to his wants, and even receive his last breath and close his eyes, before I could come back to you,” said Wing. “You were right, my boy. But now the wind has risen a little and blown the fog away. Can you see where to place the end of the carbine so as to raise the weight of the horse from my limbs?” “Yes, my Colonel, I can,” said Wing, poking the end of the weapon under the body of the horse that lay directly across one of Justin’s limbs, and prying it up a little way. “There—that is already a great relief. A little higher—raise it a little higher, Wing, and I shall be able to draw my limb from under it and crawl away,” said Justin. And Wing put forth all his strength, and pryed up the weight, and lifted it clear of the crushed limb beneath it, and held it so, until Justin Rosenthal crawled away. Then Wing let the dead horse drop to the ground, while he rushed to his colonel. A danger that neither had dreamed of was now threatening the life of Justin Rosenthal. It appeared that the Minie ball which had killed his horse under him had also passed through his own leg, severing some important vein or artery. The dead weight of the horse falling upon this limb, had closed the orifice, and stopped the bleeding. But now, at the removal of the weight, the wound burst out again, and the life-stream of the man was running fast away. He lay panting, fainting, almost dying, when Wing came up to him. “My Colonel! oh, what is the matter?” inquired Wing, in a voice vibrating with anxiety. “I think that I am dying, Wing. But come here, boy. Come close. Stoop down and listen to me.” “But what is it? oh, my Colonel, what is it? Where is your wound? What can I do for you?” wailed Wing, weeping like a woman and wringing his hands. “I think that the femoral artery is severed, Wing, and that I am bleeding to death.” “Oh, no, no, no!” groaned Wing. “Cease lamenting, dear boy. Mine is but a soldier’s fate. How egotistical to bemoan it. Only remember, Wing, and tell my dear sister that I fell in the glorious charge of Wilson’s cavalry at Cold Harbor.” “I will tell her! I will tell her! But I cannot give you up! I WILL not give you up! You must not die! You SHALL not die! Where is this severed artery? I will pinch it together with my fingers until I stop the bleeding, and I will hold it so all night and all day, and many nights and days, if necessary, until surgical relief comes to you!” cried Wing.