“Thank you, sir, I hope we'll meet at the front,” he said, in a rich Irish brogue. Then he passed on to Libby prison, while Dan turned from the window and lay watching the surgeon's faces as they probed for bullets. It was a long unceiled building, filled with bright daylight and the buzzing of countless flies. Women, who had volunteered for the service, passed swiftly over the creaking boards, or knelt beside the pallets as they bathed the shattered limbs with steady fingers. Here and there a child held a glass of water to a man who could not raise himself, or sat fanning the flies from a pallid face. None was too old nor too young where there was work for all. A stir passed through the group about the long pine table, and one of the surgeons, wiping the sweat from his brow, came over to where Dan lay, and stopped to take breath beside the window. “By Jove, that man died game,” he said, shaking his handkerchief at the flies. “We took both his legs off at the knee, and he just gripped the table hard and never winked an eyelash. I told him it would kill him, but he said he'd be hanged if he didn't take his chance--and he took it and died. Talk to me about nerve, that fellow had the cleanest grit I ever saw.” Dan's pulses fluttered, as they always did at an example of pure pluck. “What's his regiment?” he asked, watching the two slaves who, followed by their mistresses, were bringing the body back to the stretcher. “Oh, he was a scout, I believe, serving with Stuart when he was wounded. His name is--by the way, his name is Montjoy. Any relative of yours, I wonder?” Raising himself upon his elbow, Dan turned to look at the dead man beside him. A heavy beard covered the mouth and chin, but he knew the sunken black eyes and the hair that was like his own. “Yes,” he answered after a long pause, “he is a relative of mine, I think;” and then, while the man lay waiting for his coffin, he propped himself upon his arm and followed curiously the changes made by death.