“Well, suh, 'twuz des like dis,” explained Big Abel, poking the roast with a small stick. “I know I ain' got a bit a bus'ness ter shoot dat ar sheep wid my ole gun, but de sheep she ain' got no better bus'ness strayin' roun' loose needer. She sutney wuz a dang'ous sheep, dat she wuz. I 'uz des a-bleeged ter put a bullet in her haid er she'd er hed my blood sho'.” As the shout went up he divided the legs of mutton into shares and went off to eat his own on the dark edge of the wood. A little later he came back to hang Dan's cap and jacket on the branches of a young pine tree. When he had arranged them with elaborate care, he raked a bed of tags together, and covered them with an army blanket stamped in the centre with the half obliterated letters U. S. “That's a good boy, Big Abel, go to sleep,” said Dan, flinging himself down upon the pine-tag bed. “Strange how much spirit a sheep can put into a man. I wouldn't run now if I saw Pope's whole army coming.” Turning over he lay sleepily gazing into the blue dusk illuminated with the campfires which were slowly dying down. Around him he heard the subdued murmur of the mess, deep and full, though rising now and then into a clearer burst of laughter. The men were smoking their brier-root pipes about the embers, leaning against the dim bodies of the pines, while they discussed the incidents of the march with a touch of the unconquerable humour of the Confederate soldier. Somebody had a fresh joke on the quartermaster, and everybody hoped great things of the campaign into Maryland. “I pray it may bring me a pair of shoes,” muttered Dan, as he dropped off into slumber. The next day, with bands playing “Maryland, My Maryland,” and the Southern Cross taking the September wind, the ragged army waded the Potomac, and passed into other fields. II A STRAGGLER FROM THE RANKS In two weeks it swept back, wasted, stubborn, hungrier than ever. On a sultry September afternoon, Dan, who had gone down with a sharp return of fever, was brought, with a wagonful of the wounded, and placed on a heap of straw on the brick pavement of Shepherdstown. For two days he had been delirious, and Big Abel had held him to his bed during the long nights when the terrible silence seemed filled with the noise of battle; but, as he was lifted from the wagon and laid upon the sidewalk, he opened his eyes and spoke in a natural voice. “What's all this fuss, Big Abel? Have I been out of my head?” “You sutney has, suh. You've been a-prayin' en shoutin' so loud dese las' tree days dat I wunner de Lawd ain' done shet yo' mouf des ter git rid er you.” “Praying, have I?” said Dan. “Well, I declare. That reminds me of Mr. Blake, Big Abel. I'd like to know what's become of him.” Big Abel shook his head; he was in no pleasant humour, for the corners of his mouth were drawn tightly down and there was a rut between his bushy eyebrows.