Marsena Pulford stared up at him, made a little nodding motion of the head, and turned his glance again into the sky straight above. He also was a spectacle of dry mud and dust, and was bearded to the eyes. “Where are you hit?” asked Dwight, after a pause. For answer, Marsena slowly, and with an effort, put a hand to his breast--to the left, below the heart. “Here, somewhere,” he said, in a low, drylipped murmur. He did not look at Dwight again, but presently asked, “Could you fix me--settin’ up--too?” “I guess so,” responded Dwight. With the help of his unhurt arm he clambered to his feet and began moving dizzily about among the row of wounded men to his left. These groaned or snarled at him as he passed over them, but to this he paid no attention whatever. He returned from the end of the line, bringing two knapsacks and the battered frame of a drum, in which some one had been trying to carry water, and with some difficulty arranged these in a satisfactory heap. Then he knelt, pushed his arm under Marsena’s shoulders, and lifted him up and backward to the support. Both men grimaced and winced under the smart of the effort, and for some minutes sat in silence, with closed eyes. When they opened them finally it was with a sudden start at the sound of a woman’s voice. Their ears had for long hours been inured to a ceaseless din of other noises--an ear-splitting confusion of cannon and musketry roar from the field less than an eighth of a mile away, of yelping shells overhead, and of screams and hoarse shouts all about them. Yet their senses caught this strange note of a woman’s voice as if it had fallen upon the hush of midnight. They looked up, and beheld Miss Julia Parmalee! Upon such a background of heated squalor, dirt, and murderous disorder, it did not seem surprising to them that this lady should present a picture of cool, fresh neatness. She wore a snow-white nurse’s cap, and broad, spotless bands of white linen were crossed over the shoulders of her pale dove-colored dress. Her dark face, dusky pink at the cheeks, glowed with a proud excitement. Her big brown eyes swept along the row of recumbent figures at her feet with the glance of a born conqueror. “This is not a fit place for him,” she said. “It is absurd to bring a gentleman--an officer of the headquarters staff--out to such a place as this!” Then the two volunteers from Octavius saw that behind her were four men, bearing a laden stretcher, and that at her side was a regimental hospital steward, who also looked speculatively along the rows of sufferers. “It’s the best thing we can do, anyway,” he replied, not over-politely; “and for that matter, there’s hardly room here.”