The sound came from the cot in the corner, and as the crowd in that direction opened for a moment, the new-comer beheld a sight that, for a time, made him forget his own troubles. A tall, gaunt man in ragged, Zouave uniform was reclining upon his elbow on the miserable pallet, the pale, dismal light of the candles disclosing a ghastly wound on his right temple, from which the blood was trickling down upon his rusty and matted beard. "I'm going to be exchanged, I tell you!" he exclaimed, waving the others away with his left hand and glaring directly at BOB. "I've been here a whole year, and Eighty's boys wants me back; and I'm going to be exchanged." "The poor fellow was shot by one of the sentries this morning. He's from a New York regiment, and has been a prisoner ever since Bull Run," whispered one of the unfortunates to BOB. The latter approached the wounded man and kindly asked; "Can I do anything for you, old fellow?" The dying Zouave regarded him with a ghastly smile; "Yes," said he, "you can go down to Eighty's truck house and take care of little JAKE till I'm exchanged. Will you, bub, will you?" "Is JAKE your child?" asked Bob. "No," responded the Zouave, softly, "it's only a little yaller dorg. I aint got no wife, nor child, nor no friend except the masheen and little JAKE. He's petty as a picture, bub, and he's slept with me many a gay old night around Catherine Market--he has. You'll be kind to him, bub, won't you?" "Here! what's this noise about? What are yes doin' with lights this time ernight? I'll soon stop his Yankee groaning," were the words of a brutal keeper, who had just come in and was roughly elbowing his way toward the cot. "Stand off, you hound!" shouted BOB, throwing himself between the keeper and the dying soldier. "Stand off!" growled the prisoners, fiercely crowding upon the intruder with murder in their faces. "Hark!" said the Zouave, leaning listfully forward, "there goes the Hall bell--one--two--three----" His features lighted up as with the glow of a conflagration; his lips opened-- "_Fire! Fire! Fire!_" And the Zouave fell back upon the cot--dead. The keeper crawled forward like a whipped hound, and eyed the outstretched form with a face full of fear: "Exchanged at last, by G--d!" True, O traitorous hireling! and by God alone. For when that honest, loyal soul went out, there came to take its place an Avenging Spirit, that shall not cease to call on Heaven for vengeance on the Southern murderer until the cowardly stain of fifty thousand murders, such as this, are washed out in a terrible atonement. "Poor little JAKE," murmured Mr. BOB PETERS, "I wonder if he's a terrier." Then, turning to the keeper,--"How long is my imprisonment in this terrible place to be continued?" The keeper eyed the querist with no very amiable expression, "You'll stay here," said he, "until you take the Oath, I reckon."