will be better for you? Maybe
you'd lose too much blood."

"I want it out," said Willis.

"But suppose I can't got it out; we might lose an hour and do no good.
Besides, I must insist that I don't like it. I think my business is to
let your leg alone; I'm no surgeon."

"Take your knife," said Willis, "and cut the hole bigger."

The wound was bleeding afresh, but I did not tell him so.

"No," said I; "your leg is too valuable for me to risk anything of that
kind."

"You refuse?"

"I positively refuse," said I.

We had eaten enough. The sun was almost down. Far away a low rumbling
was heard, a noise like the rolling of cars or of a wagon train.

Willis reluctantly consented to start. I went to the brook and kneaded
some clay into the consistency of plaster; I took off my shirt, and tore
it into strips. Against the naked limb, stiffened out, I applied a
handful of wet clay and smoothed it over; then I wrapped the cloths
around the knee, at every fold smearing the bandage with clay. I hardly
knew why I did this, unless with the purpose of keeping the knee-joint
from bending; when the clay should become dry and hard the joint would
be incased in a stiff setting which I hoped would serve for splints.
Willis approved the treatment, saying that clay was good for sprains,
and might be good for wounds.

I helped the sergeant to his feet. He could stand, but could hardly
move.

"Take my gun," said I, "and use it as a crutch."

He did as I said, but the barrel of the gun sank into the soft earth;
after two strides he said, "Here! I can get along better without it."
Meanwhile I had been sustaining part of his weight.

I saw now that I must abandon my gun--a smooth-bore, on the stock of
which, with a soldier's vanity, I had carved the letters J.B. I broke
the stock with one blow of the barrel against the poplar log.

I was now free to help Willis. Slowly and painfully we made our way
through the bottom. The cool water of the creek rose above our knees and
seemed to cheer the wounded man. The ascent of the further bank was
achieved, but with great difficulty.

[Illustration: BULL RUN, July 2l,1881]

We rested a little while. Here, in the swamp, night was falling. We saw
no one, neither pursuers nor pursued. At length, after much and painful
toil, we got through the wood. The last light of day showed us a small
field in front. Willis leaned against a tree, his blanched face showing
his agony. I let down a gap in t