Dick came back to life, and, looking into
his colonel's face, he grinned. Colonel Winchester could have been
recognized only at close range. His face was black with burned
gunpowder. His colonel's hat was gone and his brown hair flew in every
direction. He still clenched in his hand the hilt of his sword, of
which a broken blade not more than a foot long was left. His clothing
had been torn by at least a dozen bullets, and one had made a red streak
across the back of his left hand, from which the blood fell slowly,
drop by drop.
"You don't mind my telling you, colonel, that you're no beauty," said
Dick, who felt a sort of hysterical wish to laugh. "You look as if the
whole Southern army had tried to shoot you up, but had merely clipped
you all around the borders."
"Laugh if it does you good," replied Colonel Winchester, a little
gravely, "but, young sir, you must give me the same privilege. This
battle, while it has not wounded you, has covered you with its grime.
Come, the fighting is over for this day at least, and the regiment is
going to take a rest--what there is left of it."
He spoke the last words sadly. He knew the terrible cost at which they
had driven the Southern army back into the fort, and he feared that the
full price was yet far from being paid. But he preserved a cheerful
manner before the brave lads of his who had fought so well.
Dick found that Warner and Pennington both had wounds, although they
were too slight to incapacitate them.
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