CHAPTER XVII.
Our hospital was a great laboratory of sighs. Many a brave man breathed out the last whisper to us when death fastened upon his heart. We were called upon to listen to delirious ravings, and to the hardly articulate words of those whose struggle for life was hard and long. Youth lay before us with fair locks, and face as smooth as a girl's, and with them the bullet had done its work at last.
One of seventeen years, who was mortally wounded through the lungs, sent a messenger for me one day, having heard my name spoken by some of his comrades, and I hastened to his ward. Very cheerfully he asked me how many hours I thought he could live, and I said, "You may live a day, and perhaps longer," for it was useless and cruel to deceive when they themselves knew that death hovered near them.
He only sighed, and turned his face away for a moment, then asked me brightly if I would play checkers with him, adding, "It will bring home back clearer to me than anything else, for my sister played with me the last evening we spent at home—and we used to be so happy together."
