“It’s all right,” he said in the ghost of a voice.  “Whichever way it turns put, it’s all right. . .  I’ve tried to live lawfully. . . .  It is better to live mercifully.  I think—­she—­would forgive. . . .  Will you?”

“Yes.”

He bent and took the wounded man’s hand, in his.

“If I knew—­if I knew—­” he said, and his burning eyes searched the bloodless face beneath him.

“God?” he whispered—­“if it were true——­”

A surgeon shouldered him aside, glanced sharply at the patient, motioned the bearers forward.

Berkley sat down by the roadside, bridle in hand, head bowed in his arms.  Beside him his horse fed quietly on the weeds.  In his ears rang the cries of the wounded; all around him he was conscious of people passing to and fro; and he sat there, face covered, deadly tired, already exhausted to a stolidity that verged on stupor.

He must have slept, too, because when he sat up and opened his eyes again it was nearly sundown, and somebody had stolen his horse.

A zouave with a badly sprained ankle, lying on a blanket near him, offered him bread and meat that stank; and Berkley ate it, striving to collect his deadened thoughts.  After he had eaten he filled the zouave’s canteen at a little rivulet where hundreds of soldiers were kneeling to drink or dip up the cool, clear water.

“What’s your reg’ment, friend?” asked the man.

“Eighth New York Lancers.”

“Lord A’mighty!  You boys did get cut up some, didn’t you?”

“I guess so.  Are you Colonel Craig’s regiment?”

“Yes.  We got it, too.  Holy Mother—­we got it f’r fair!”

“Is your Colonel all right?”

“Yes.  Steve—­his son—­corporal, 10th Company—­was hit.”

“What!”

“Yes, sir.  Plumb through the collar-bone.  He was one of the first to get it.  I was turrible sorry for his father—­fine old boy!—­and he looked like he’d drop dead hisself—­but, by gosh, friend, when the stretcher took Steve to the rear the old man jest sot them clean-cut jaws o’ his’n, an’ kep’ his gold-wired gig-lamps to the front.  An’ when the time come, he sez in his ca’m, pleasant way:  ‘Boys,’ sez he, ‘we’re agoin’ in.  It’s a part of the job,’ sez he, ‘that has got to be done thorough.  So,’ sez he, ’we’ll jest mosey along kind o’ quick steppin’ now, and we’ll do our part like we al’us does do it.  For’rd—­mar-r-rch!’”

Berkley sat still, hands clasped over his knees, thinking of Stephen, and of Celia, and of the father out yonder somewhere amid the smoke.

“Gawd,” said the zouave, “you got a dirty jab on your cocanut, didn’t you?”

The bandage had slipped, displaying the black scab of the scarcely healed wound; and Berkley absently replaced it.

“That’ll ketch the girls,” observed the zouave with conviction.  “Damn it, I’ve only got a sprained ankle to show my girl.”