What is it ye think ye see ?" "His face, I tell ye! Don't I know?
It's all green and ghastly, with snaky flames playin' about it! But I know; fifteen years, an' I ain't fergot." He sank down feebly--sank until he was on his knees, his head craned forward.

The man watching touched the miserable, hunched-up figure compassionately, and it shook beneath his hand, endeavoring to shrink away.
"My God! was thet you?
I thought it was him a-reachin' fer me.

Here, let me take yer hand.

Oh, Lord! An' can't ye see?
It's just there beyond them horses--all green, crawlin', devilish--but it's him." "Who ?" "Brant! Brant--fifteen year!" "Brant?
Fifteen years?
Do you mean Major Brant, the one Nolan killed over at Bethune ?" "He--he didn't--" The old man heaved forward, his head rocking from side to side; then suddenly he toppled over on his face, gasping for breath.

His companion caught him, and ripped open the heavy flannel shirt.