n and made sure that its
defenders were few and badly armed, he ordered a charge. In five minutes
the troops were in possession of the hilltop, and the insurgents had
fled; but on the hillside lay a score of men wounded and dead. The
rebels were good marksmen, and fleet-footed. The scouts beat the bushes
and scoured the wood in vain. The report to the commanding officer was
the wounding of two men, who were just then dying in a little glen close
by, and the discovery of a party of tourists in the glen, who had
evidently turned aside to escape the trouble, and were now ministering
to the dying rebels.

Captain Sydenham went up to investigate. Before he arrived the little
drama of death had passed, and the two insurgents lay side by side at
the margin of the brook like brothers asleep. When the insurgents fled
from their position, the two wounded ones dropped into the glen in the
hope of escaping notice for the time; but they were far spent when they
fell headlong among the party in hiding below. Grahame and Ledwith
picked them up and laid them near the brook, Honora pillowed their heads
with coats, Arthur brought water to bathe their hands and faces, grimy
with dust of travel and sweat of death; for an examination of the wounds
showed Ledwith that they were speedily mortal. He dipped his
handkerchief in the flowing blood of each, and placed it reverently in
his breast. There was nothing to do but bathe the faces and moisten the
lips of the dying and unconscious men. They were young, one rugged and
hard, the other delicate in shape and color; the same grace of youth
belonged to both, and showed all the more beautifully at this moment
through the heavy veil of death.

Arthur gazed at them with eager curiosity, and at the red blood bubbling
from their wounds. For their country they were dying, as his father had
died, on the field of battle. This blood, of which he had so often read,
was the price which man pays for liberty, which redeems the slave;
richer than molten gold, than sun and stars, priceless. Oh, sweet and
glorious, unutterably sweet to die like this for men!

"Do you recognize him?" said Ledwith to Grahame, pointing to the elder
of the two. Grahame bent forward, startled that he should know either
unfortunate.

"It is young Devin, the poet," cried Ledwith with a burst of tears.
Honora moaned, and Grahame threw up his hands in despair.

"We must give the best to our mother," said Ledwith, "but I would prefer