There was one light larger than the others--near the center of the camp it seemed to be--and figures passed and repassed in front of it like a procession. Presently I noticed that these shapes passed in fours, and they were carrying something. It seemed a curious thing, and I watched it a little; then I understood what they were doing: they were burying the dead. I could easily have crept nearer and fired some bullets into the British camp, but I had no such intent. That was the business of others, and even then I could hear the far-away shots of the sharpshooters. The sights of this stricken camp interested me. The ground was favorable for concealment, and I crept nearer. Lying among some weeds I could obtain a good view. The figures before indistinct and shapeless now took form and outline. I could tell which were officers and which were soldiers. Some men were digging in the hillside. They soon ceased, and four others lifted a body from the grass and put it in the grave. A woman came forward and read from a little book. My heart thrilled when I recognized the straight figure and earnest face of Kate Van Auken. Yet there was no need for me to be surprised at the sight of her. It was like her to give help on such a night. I could not hear the words, but I knew they were a prayer, and I bowed my head. When she finished the prayer and they began to throw in the earth, she walked away and I lost sight of her; but I guessed that she went on to other and similar duties. I turned about to retreat, and stumbled over a body. A feeble voice bade me be more careful, and not run over a gentleman who was not bothering me but attending to his own business. A British officer, very pale and weak--I could see that even in the obscurity--sat up and looked reproachfully at me. “Aren’t you rebels satisfied with beating us?” he asked in a faint voice scarce above a whisper. “Do you want to trample on us too?” “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I did not see you.” “If any harm was done, your apology has removed it,” he replied most politely. I looked at him with interest. His voice was not the only weak thing about him. He seemed unable to sit up, but was in a half-reclining position, with his shoulder propped against a stone. He was young. “What’s the matter?” I asked, sympathizing much. “I’m in the most embarrassing position of my life,” he replied, with a faint attempt at a laugh. “One of your confounded rebel bullets has gone through both my thighs. I don’t think it has struck any bone, but I have lost so much blood that I can neither walk, nor can I cry out loud enough for my people to come and rescue me, nor for your people to come and capture me. I think the bleeding has stopped. The blood seems to have clogged itself up.” I was bound to admit that he had truly described his position as embarrassing. “What would you do if you were in my place?” he asked.