Part 8 (2/2)

As the friends joked and laughed with all the reckless abandon of soldiers, a pistol-shot was heard, and simultaneously a pistol ball whistled past their ears and buried itself in the earth at a few feet's distance.

Both sprang to their feet, and rus.h.i.+ng round the tent, came upon two men in deadly strife--one in gray, the other in blue. They rolled on the ground; each held the other's throat in a deadly grasp. It seemed impossible to decide upon which side the victory would turn, and their continual writhings and contortions rendered interference impossible.

But at last the struggle ended in the Federal soldier succeeding in drawing a dagger from his breast and plunging it into his opponent's side.

The wounded man's hold relaxed from the other's throat; he fell back heavily with a stifled groan, and the victor rose and turned round his haggard, white face to the brother colonels.

”_Morbleu!_ it is Thoms!” cried Calembours, in accents of incredulity.

”Well fought, gray-beard,” chimed in St. Udo, in equal amazement. ”You deserve promotion. What was this Confederate soldier about?”

Thoms glared at the two colonels like a tiger, then down at his vanquished enemy, from whose side the blood poured hotly.

”He pretended that he wanted to offer himself as a guide to the grand army,” muttered Thoms, ”and we pa.s.sed the pickets and came straight to your tent to speak about it. But he tried to pistol you when he came in sight of you, and I had just time to dash his arm up.”

”Brave Thoms!” applauded Calembours. ”Good Thoms!”

”What is it, Reed?” demanded St. Udo of the soldier, who was kneeling by the fallen Confederate.

”He is trying to speak,” answered Reed. ”He is saying, 'No, no.'”

Thoms bent eagerly over him, with murderous look in his eyes.

The man was dying; his half-closed eyes were glazing fast, but his bloodless lips moved convulsively, and though his life-blood welled forth at every effort, he still strove to utter some frantic word.

”No!--he--lies!” muttered he, at last.

Thoms' trembling fingers were at his throat in a moment--Thoms' tigerish eyes flashed out their rage.

”Let him alone,” expostulated Reed. ”Let the poor wretch speak.”

”Off, Thoms!” thundered St. Udo, with a terrible frown.

Both colonels stooped over the Confederate soldier. St. Udo put his ear close to the twitching lips.

”He shot the pistol off himself,” muttered the man. ”Before Heaven, I swear it! He stabbed me to save himself. He did--he did!”

The life-blood oozed into his lungs and choked him; he clasped his hands and threw them up toward Heaven, as if he called on his creator to witness his innocence, and immediately expired.

The two friends rose and looked at Thoms.

Whiter in his grave he would never be. The veins stood out on his damp forehead like whipcord, but he returned their fierce gaze with a dogged firmness.

”What do you say to this charge?” demanded St. Udo.

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