FAR into the night John Horton lay in an unconscious condition, between life and death. The physician characterized the wound as an ugly one, and expressed great doubt as to the outcome. Agreeable to his advice, it was thought best not to move the patient for a few hours at least; and a comfortable cot was provided, on which he lay moaning, tossing, and mumbling incoherently. By his side sat the grim-visaged Captain Osborn, whose heart was tender with sympathy and solicitude. Occasionally the captain would exchange a few words with Hugh Stanton, in subdued tones, regarding the doctor’s orders and the ices that were to be kept constantly on the wound. The name “Ethel” escaped the patient’s lips amidst his moaning, and again the words “little Hugh.”

It was after midnight when he seemed to arouse from the unconscious condition in which he had lain, and began moaning again and pulling at the bandages on his wound. It required no little effort on the part of his attendants to prevent him from tearing the bandages entirely away. Presently he started up as if awakening from a troubled sleep. He opened his eyes and for a few minutes looked vacantly at Captain Osborn. Then, in a quick, nervous tone, he asked, “Where is my canteen and sword?”

“They are all right,” replied the captain, soothingly, “don’t think anything about them at present. What you need now is quiet and sleep.”

“Where am I?” the wounded man next asked, and then, without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Did we whip them or did they whip us?”

“There, there,” said the captain, gently, “you have a bad wound. Don’t disturb yourself by trying to think. Go to sleep now, and I will tell you all about the affair in the morning.”

“Very kind of you, stranger, I am sure,” said Horton. “I have had all the sleep I care for. I must now join my regiment.” As he said this he tried to arise from the cot. Both Hugh and Captain Osborn had all they could do to prevent him from doing so. They persuaded him to believe that the physician had forbidden undue exertion. The wounded man lay back on his cot, exhausted from his effort, and looked at his attendants in half anger, while his eyes lighted up with the fire of a soldier.

“My duty as a soldier,” he protested, “outranks the order of the hospital physician. As civilians, you, perhaps, cannot understand this, but it is imperative that I join my regiment, the Twenty-ninth, immediately.”

Hugh started to speak, but the old captain motioned him to silence. “He is badly out of his head,” thought he, “and I must handle him by strategy.” Perhaps Captain Osborn remembered the gallant services of the Twenty-ninth Massachusetts regiment, of which he had been the colonel, and was pardonably proud of his achievements while defending the flag during the war.

“The Twenty-ninth is all right, comrade,” observed the captain. “Officers and men behaved like heroes.”

“A glorious report!” cried the wounded man, enthusiastically. “That repays me for this painful wound on my head, and lying around in the hospital insensible for I know not how many hours. It was a grand charge our men made,—right in the face of bristling bayonets, shot and shell from the ‘gray coats.’ Our captain commanded the right wing, the second lieutenant the left, while I occupied the central position, and, in the doublequick charge that we were making, something struck me on the head, just as our boys crossed over a little brook, and then—well, I knew nothing more until just now, when I came to my senses in this improvised hospital.” As he concluded, he let his eyes wander about the small, dimly-lighted room.

The captain looked at Hugh, and shook his head doubtfully.

“Perhaps you would like to send a report to the commander of your brigade, comrade?”

“Good idea,” said Mr. Horton. “By the way, as we whipped the ‘rebs,’ communication with the North is still open, and I would like also to send a few lines to a noble little wife away up in Massachusetts.”

“Let me be your amanuensis,” said Hugh, drawing his chair to the captain’s table, and arranging some writing material.

“Thank you, sir; are you ready?”

“Quite ready,” replied Hugh.

“Hospital near Fortress Monroe.

“To Captain Lyman Osborn, 29th Mass. Inf.:

“Will join the company to-morrow. Am all right with the exception of a scalp wound, which is somewhat painful. Have had a good sleep and feel refreshed. Expect me by noon.

“Your obedient servant,

“Lieut. Hugh Stanton.”

When the wounded man had finished dictating his report he uttered a moan, and pressed his hand against the painful wound on his head. Hugh lifted his eyes to Captain Osborn, and saw that the old veteran’s face was ashen white. The startling revelation had also dawned upon Hugh, and nis hand trembled violently. Captain Osborn controlled his feelings, and, with iron-like firmness, remarked, “Excellent report, comrade, splendid! Now, suppose you dictate a short letter to your wife, and I will see that it is posted on the north-bound train that leaves here within an hour.”

Mr. Horton was evidently in great pain. He lay with closed eyes for a few minutes, as if waiting for the throbbing of his head to cease, and then said: “Oh, I hope the garbled telegraph reports have not numbered me among the missing. It would break the little woman’s heart to read such a report as that in the newspapers.”

“I am ready,” said Hugh, huskily.

“Very well; say Fortress Monroe—don’t date it at the hospital; it would only cause her needless anxiety.”

“All right, I will do as you request,” replied Hugh.

“My dear wife Ethel:—Yesterday, June 10th, our company formed part of a detachment sent to dislodge the forces under General Magruder, which were stationed a few miles from here, in the vicinity of Bethel Church. The battle did not last long, but was quite severe. I was slightly wounded—nothing serious. Will report to my company for active service within a few hours. Have just learned that we completely routed the enemy, which was, of course, a most satisfactory termination of the engagement. Every man of the Twenty-ninth proved himself a hero, for, like myself, they were fighting for a great principle and for loved ones at home, and this made their services to their country a holy crusade.

“When our little Hugh—God bless him!—is older, teach him that his father was a soldier and a defender of hearthstones and of the glorious old stars and stripes. The Bethel Church encounter will doubtless go down in history as one of the most spirited engagements of the war.

“Affectionately your husband,

“Hugh Stanton.”

It required no small effort on the part of Captain Osborn to control his agitation at this marvelous revelation. However, he hastily prepared an opiate that had been left by the physician, and gave it to the wounded man, who soon after fell into a peaceful slumber. Then he moved nervously from the side of the cot, and approached Hugh.

“My boy,” said he, in a low, trembling voice, “what a revelation! Do you realize that this man is none other than your father?”

“I do,” faltered Hugh.

“Yes, and by the eternal,” the captain went on, “we will save him. To think I have failed to recognize my old lieutenant all these years is a piece of unpardonable stupidity on my part.”

Hugh’s head had been bowed in his hands, while his whole frame was convulsed with stifled sobs. When the captain ceased speaking, he stood up before him, and their hands closed in a fervent hand-clasp.

“God bless you, my old friend,” said Hugh, “you have nothing to condemn yourself for, but together we are confronting a great problem. Will he awake from his present sleep as John Horton, the cattle king, or as Hugh Stanton, my father?”