“Oh, the hill-men hereabouts will travel leagues to visit and feed such a man.”

“That doesn’t explain why his bones lie unburied.”

“No.”  The General mused for a moment.  “Found anything else?” he demanded sharply.

The searchers reported “Nothing,” and wished to know if they should bring the skeleton out into the light.

“No:  cover him up decently, and fall in to limber up the gun!” He took his horse’s bridle and walked back to the group about the injured man.

“Who is he?”

He was told, a corporal of the 94th who had volunteered for the gun team two days before.  The sergeant who reported this added diffidently, “He had half a dozen of his religious mates in the team.  He’s a Wesleyan Methodist, sir, begging your pardon.”

“Are you one?”

The sergeant saluted.

“He was the best man in his company and—­and,” he added with a touch of awe, “he was converted by Charles Wesley himself—­at Bristol in ’eighty, so he’s told us—­and him aged but sixteen.”

The General bent with sudden interest as the dying man opened his eyes.  After scanning his face for a moment or two he said gently: 

“My man, they tell me you knew Charles Wesley.”

The corporal painfully bent his brows, on which the last sweat was gathering.  “Is that—­the General?” he gasped with a feeble effort to salute.  Then his brain seemed to clear suddenly and he answered, not as soldier to commanding officer, but as man to man.  “He converted me.  Praise be to God!”

“You are going to him.  You know?”

The corporal nodded.

“And you may take him a message from me:  for he once did me a handsome turn, too—­though not in that way.  You may tell him—­for I watched you with the guns to-day—­that I pass you for a good soldier.  You may tell him and his brother John that I wish to command no better followers than theirs.  Now, is there anything I can do for you?”

The man looked up into the eyes of the sergeant bending over him, muttered a word or two, slowly drew his palm up to his forehead; and so, with the self-same salute, parted from his earthly captain and met his eternal Captain in Heaven.

“What did he say?” asked the General.

“He was wishful not to be put away without a hymn, sir,” answered the sergeant, drawing himself erect to “Attention” and answering respectfully through his captain who had drawn near, having limbered up his gun.

The General nodded and turned away to watch the lowering of the remaining guns.  A new track had been cut and down it they were trailed without accident.  One by one they crossed the gully.  Then the rear regiments hove in sight with the ambulance.  The dead man was lifted in and his carrying-party, Wesleyans all, fell into rank behind the light wagon as that, too, moved on.

“Ellerton,” said the General suddenly as he gazed after them, “did you hear what I said to that poor fellow just now?”