He hurried on in the dusk.The day had faded until he could barely distinguish place for his feet.The purple darkness was filled with men who lectured and jabbered.Sometimes he could see them gesticulating against the blue and somber sky.There seemed to be a great ruck of men and munitions spread about in the forest and in the fields.
The little narrow roadway now lay lifeless.
There were overturned wagons like sun-dried bowlders.The bed of the former torrent was choked with the bodies of horses and splintered parts of war machines.
It had come to pass that his wound pained him but little.He was afraid to move rapidly, how-ever, for a dread of disturbing it.He held his head very still and took many precautions against stumbling.He was filled with anxiety, and his face was pinched and drawn in anticipation of the pain of any sudden mistake of his feet in the gloom.
His thoughts, as he walked, fixed intently upon his hurt.There was a cool, liquid feeling about it and he imagined blood moving slowly down under his hair.His head seemed swollen to a size that made him think his neck to be inadequate.
The new silence of his wound made much worriment.The little blistering voices of pain that had called out from his scalp were, he thought, definite in their expression of danger.
By them he believed that he could measure his plight.But when they remained ominously silent he became frightened and imagined ter-rible fingers that clutched into his brain.
Amid it he began to reflect upon various incidents and conditions of the past.He be-thought him of certain meals his mother had cooked at home, in which those dishes of which he was particularly fond had occupied prominent positions.He saw the spread table.The pine walls of the kitchen were glowing in the warm light from the stove.Too, he remembered how he and his companions used to go from the school-house to the bank of a shaded pool.He saw his clothes in disorderly array upon the grass of the bank.He felt the swash of the fragrant water upon his body.The leaves of the overhanging maple rustled with melody in the wind of youth-ful summer.
He was overcome presently by a dragging weariness.His head hung forward and his shoulders were stooped as if he were bearing a great bundle.His feet shuffled along the ground.
He held continuous arguments as to whether he should lie down and sleep at some near spot, or force himself on until he reached a certain haven.He often tried to dismiss the question, but his body persisted in rebellion and his senses nagged at him like pampered babies.
At last he heard a cheery voice near his shoulder: "Yeh seem t' be in a pretty bad way, boy?"The youth did not look up, but he assented with thick tongue."Uh!"The owner of the cheery voice took him firmly by the arm."Well," he said, with a round laugh, "I'm goin' your way.Th' hull gang is goin' your way.An' I guess I kin give yeh a lift." They began to walk like a drunken man and his friend.
As they went along, the man questioned the youth and assisted him with the replies like one manipulating the mind of a child.Sometimes he interjected anecdotes."What reg'ment do yeh b'long teh? Eh? What's that? Th' 304th N'
