"Well," he mumbled, "you and me have been on th' outs fer a long time, an' I only wanted to tell ye that what I seen of ye t'day has made me feel mighty different." "Go to the rear--if you can walk," said the major. "Now, Maje, look here. A little thing like that----" "Go to the rear." Lige gulped with sobs. "Maje, I know I didn't understand ye at first, but ruther'n let a little thing like that come between us, I'd--I'd----" "Go to the rear." In this reiteration Lige discovered a resemblance to that first old offensive phrase, "Come to attention and salute." He pondered over the resemblance and he saw that nothing had changed. The man bleeding to death was the same man to whom he had once paid a friendly visit with unfriendly results. He thought now that he perceived a certain hopeless gulf, a gulf which is real or unreal, according to circumstances. Sometimes all men are equal; occasionally they are not. If Gates had ever criticised Lige's manipulation of a hay fork on the farm at home, Lige would have furiously disdained his hate or blame. He saw now that he must not openly approve the major's conduct in war. The major's pride was in his business, and his, Lige's congratulations, were beyond all enduring. The place where they were lying suddenly fell under a new heavy rain of bullets. They sputtered about the men, making the noise of large grasshoppers. "Major!" cried Lige. "Major Gates! It won't do for ye to be left here, sir. Ye'll be killed." "But you can't help it, lad. You take care of yourself." "I'm damned if I do," said the private, vehemently. "If I can't git _you_ out, I'll stay and wait." The officer gazed at his man with that same icy, contemptuous gaze. "I'm--I'm a dead man anyhow. You go to the rear, do you hear?" "No." The dying major drew his revolver, cocked it and aimed it unsteadily at Lige's head. "Will you obey orders?" "No." "One?" "No." "Two?" "No." Gates weakly dropped his revolver. "Go to the devil, then. You're no soldier, but----" He tried to add something, "But----" He heaved a long moan. "But--you--you--oh, I'm so-o-o tired." V After the battle, three correspondents happened to meet on the trail. They were hot, dusty, weary, hungry and thirsty, and they repaired to the shade of a mango tree and sprawled luxuriously. Among them they mustered twoscore friends who on that day had gone to the far shore of the hereafter, but their senses were no longer resonant. Shackles was babbling plaintively about mint-juleps, and the others were bidding him to have done. "By-the-way," said one, at last, "it's too bad about poor old Gates of the 307th. He bled to death. His men were crazy. They were blubbering and cursing around there like wild people. It seems that when they got back there to look for him they found him just about gone, and another wounded man was trying to stop the flow with his hat! His hat, mind you. Poor old Gatesie!"