thing of the sort. At least the movements of those three resembled dancing."
He remembers distinctly, when he was shot through the chest and fell, his legs twitched for some time until he lost consciousness, as if he were dancing to music. And at the present moment, when he thinks of that attack, a strange feeling comes over him: partly fear and partly the desire to experience it all over again.
"And get another ball in your chest?" asked I.
"There now, why should I get a ball each time? But it would not be half so bad, old boy, to get a medal for bravery."
He was lying on his back with a waxen face, sharp nose, prominent cheek-bones and sunken eyes. He was lying looking like a corpse and dreaming of a medal! Mortification had already set in; he had a high temperature, and in three days' time he was to be thrown into the grave to join the dead; nevertheless he lay smiling dreamingly and talking about a medal.
"Have you telegraphed to your mother?" I asked.
He glanced at me with terror, animosity and anger, and did not answer. I was silent, and then the groans and ravings of the wounded became audible. But when I rose to go, he caught my hand in his hot, but still strong one, and fixed his sunken burning eyes upon me in a lost and distressed way.
"What does it all mean, ay? What does it all mean?" asked he in a frightened and persistent manner, pulling at my hand.
"What?"
