He might have opened his eyes and looked for the singer, but he did not.
The twilight region between sleep and consciousness was too pleasant. He
had no responsibilities, nothing to do. He had a dim memory that he had
belonged to an army, that it was his business to try to kill some one,
and to try to keep from getting killed, but all that was gone now. He
could lie there, without pain of body or anxiety of mind, and let vague
but bright visions pass through his soul.
His eyes still closed, he listened to the voice. It was very low,
scarcely more than a murmur, yet it was thrillingly sweet. It might not
be a human voice, after all, just the distant note of a bird in the
forest, or the murmur of a brave little stream, or a summer wind among
green leaves.
He moved a little and became conscious that he was not going back into
that winter region of dusk. His soul instead was steadily moving toward
the light. The beat of his heart grew normal, and then memory in a full
tide rushed upon him. He saw the great cavalry battle with all its red
turmoil, the savage swing of von Boehlen's saber and himself drifting
out into the darkness.
He opened his eyes, the battle vanished, and he saw himself lying upon a
low, wooden platform. His head rested upon a small pillow, a blanket was
under him, and another above him. Turning slowly he saw other men
wrapped in blankets like himself on the platform in a row that stretched
far to right and left.
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