had fallen dead or disabled on the field.
Many eyes were in tears, and many hearts were bleeding for lost comrades and dear friends.
General Rousseau rides up in the darkness, and, as we gather around him, says, in a voice tremulous with emotion: Boys of the Third, you stood in that withering fire like men of iron.
They are thirsty and hungry.
Few, however, think either of food or water.
Their thoughts are on the crest of that little hill, where Cunard, McDougal, St. John, Starr, and scores of others lie cold in death.
They think of the wounded and suffering, and speak to each other of the terrible ordeal through which they have passed, with bated breath and in solemn tones, as if a laugh, or jest, or frivolous word, would be an insult to the slain.
They have long sought for a battle, and often been disappointed and sore because they failed to find one; but now, for the first time, they really realize what a battle is. They see it is to men what an arctic wind