Some there were, however, who made the retreat more leisurely, and among these, Bill Baker. Remembering the mark he had fixed in his own mind, he sought among the slain for Harry, finding him at last, trampled and crushed by the flying troops, and wholly unrecognizable by any save a brother’s eye. Bill knew him, however, in a moment, but there was no time now to “do the tender,” as he had purposed doing. There was danger in tarrying long, and with a shudder Bill bent over the mangled form, and with his jack-knife severed a lock of matted, bloodwet hair, taking also from the pockets whatever of value they contained, not from any avaricious motive, but rather from a feeling that the rebels should get nothing save the body. “A darned sight good Hal’s carcass will do ye!” he said, shaking his fist defiantly in the direction of the foe, “but the wust is your own this hot weather, if you don’t bury him decently;” then turning to the lifeless gore, he continued: “Poor Hal! I’m kinder sorry you are dead. You had now and then a streak of good about you, and I’m sorry we ever quarreled, I be, upon my word, and I wish you could hear me say so; but you can’t, knocked into a cocked up hat as you are, poor Hal. If there was a spot on your face as big as a sixpence that wasn’t smashed into a jelly, I’d kiss you just for the old woman’s sake, but I swan if I can stomach it! I might your hands, perhaps,” and bending lower, Bill’s lips touched the clammy fingers of the dead. There was something in the touch which brought to Bill’s heart a pang similar to the one he felt when he saw his brother fall, and rising to his feet, he said, mournfully: “Good-bye, old Hal, I’m going now; I wish you might go, too. Good-bye,” and wiping away a tear which felt much out of place on his rough cheek, Bill walked away, saying to himself, “Poor Hal. I didn’t s’pose I had such a hankerin’ for him. Didn’t s’pose I cared for nobody; but such a day’s work as this finds the soft spot in a feller’s heart if he’s got any. Poor Hal! Mother’ll nigh about raise the _ruff_!” Thus soliloquizing Bill moved on, not rapidly as others did, but rather leisurely than otherwise. He seemed to be benumbed, and did not care much what became of himself. Wading the stream he trudged on, now wondering “What the plague they all were running for, when they’d got the rascals licked,” and again anathematizing the shot which fell around him. “S’pose I care for you,” he said, hitting a spent ball a kick. “S’pose I care if I do get killed? better do that than to run.”