Then he would grow calm for awhile. One thing recurred constantly: he had
sold his honor, betrayed his cause. This was the order again and again,
and each time the paroxysm of frightful fury came on, and it took all of us
to hold him. He was covered with snakes: they were chains on his wrists
and around his body. He tried to pull them from around him. At last,
toward morning, came one of those fearful spells, worse than any
that had gone before. It passed, and he suddenly seemed to collapse.
He sank, and the stimulant administered failed to revive him.
"He is going," said the doctor, quietly, across the bed. Whether his dull ear
caught the word or not, I cannot say; but he suddenly roused up,
tossed one arm, and said:
"Binford, take the horses. I'm going to old Joe," and sank back.
"He's gone," said the doctor, opening his shirt and placing his ear
over his heart. As he rose up I saw two curious scars on "No. 4"'s
emaciated breast. They looked almost like small crosses,
about the size of the decorations the European veterans wear.
The old doctor bent over and examined them.
"Hello! Bayonet-wounds," he said briefly.
A little later I went out to get a breath of fresh morning air
to quiet my nerves, which were somewhat unstrung.
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