I first took him for one of our men. But
his talk undeceived me. It was the talk of your men, and sorrowful talk.
He was badly hurt; he knew that. But he was sure of life. He couldn't
die there like a brute. He had to go back and he would go back alive and
well; for God was a gentleman, whatever else He was, and above practical
jokes of that sort. Then he seemed to know he was losing strength, and
he cried out for a picture, as if he must at least have that before he
went. Weak as he was, he tried to turn on his side to search for it. 'It
was here a moment ago,' he would say; 'I had it once,' and he tried to
turn again, still crying out for it,--he must not die without it. It
hurt me to hear his voice break, and I made out to roll near him to help
him search. 'We'll find it,' I told him, and he thanked me for my help.
'Look for a square hard case,' he said eagerly. 'It must be here; I had
it after I fell down.' Together we searched the rough ground over in the
dark as well as we could. I was glad enough to help him. I had a picture
like that of my own that I shouldn't have liked to lose. But we were
clumsy searchers, and he seemed to lose hope as he lost strength. Again
he cried out for that picture, but now it was a despairing cry, and it
hurt me.
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