and moan, my face beaded with perspiration.  A wounded man lifted his arm from out a tangled heap of dead, and fired a revolver up into the ceiling; I saw the bullet tear through the plaster, and the hand sink back nerveless, the fingers dropping the weapon.  The sounds of battle were dying away to the eastward; I could distinguish the volleys of musketry from the roar of the big guns.  I worked my head about, little by little, until I was able to see the face of the man lying across me.  It was ghastly white, except where blood discolored his cheek, and I stared without recognition.  Then I knew he must be Miles.  Oh, yes, I remembered; he had come up at the very last, he and another man, and one had been knocked down when the stair-rail broke.  I wondered how they came to be there; who the other man was.  I felt sorry for Miles, sorry for that girl back in Illinois he had told me about.  I reached back and touched his hand—­it felt warm still, and, in some manner, I got my fingers upon his pulse.  It beat feebly.  Then he was not dead—­not dead!  Perhaps if I could get up, get him turned over, it might save his life.  The thought brought me strength.  Here was something worthy the effort —­and I made it, gritting my teeth grimly to the pain, and bracing my hands against the wall.  Once I had to stop, faint and sick, everything about swimming in mist; then I made the supreme effort, and turned over, my back against the wall, and Miles’ ghastly face in my lap.  I sat staring at it, half demented, utterly helpless to do more, my own body throbbing with a thousand agonies.  Some poor devil shrieked, and I trembled and shook as though lashed by a whip.  Then a hand fell softly on my forehead, and I looked up dizzily, half believing it a dream, into Billie’s eyes.  She was upon her knees beside me, her unbound hair sweeping to the floor, her face as white as the sergeant’s.

“And you live?—­you live!” she cried, as though doubting her own eyes.  “O God, I thank you!”

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE MYSTERY SOLVED

It was impossible for me to speak.  Twice I endeavored, but no sound came from my parched lips, and I think my eyes must have filled with tears, her dear face was so blurred and indistinct.  She must have understood, for she drew my head down upon her shoulder, pressing back the matted hair with one hand.

“My poor boy!” she whispered sobbingly.  “My poor boy!”

“And you—­you are injured?” I managed to ask with supreme effort.

“No, not physically—­but the horror of it; the thought of you in midst of that awful fighting!  Oh, I never knew before what fiends men can become.  This has taught me to hate war,” and she hid her face against my cheek.  “I was in that dark corner against the wall; I saw nothing, yet could not stop my ears.  But this sight sickens me.  I—­I stood there holding onto the rail staring at all those dead bodies, believing you to be among them.  I thought I should go mad, and then—­then I saw you.”