"His wound is mortal, I am afraid," he said, "but I will do all I can
for him."
And with a rapid hand he stanched the blood, and bandaged the wound.
The boy had not stirred. He remained still, with his head leaning upon
the girl's breast.
"Can he live?" she murmured, in a tone almost inaudible.
"If he is not moved, he may possibly live; but if he is moved his death
is certain. The least change in the position of his body, for some
hours from this time, will be fatal."
"Then he shall not have to change his position!" exclaimed the girl.
And, with the pale face still lying upon her bosom, she remained
immovable.
Throughout all the long night she did not move or disturb the youth. He
had fallen into a deep sleep, and his head still lay upon her bosom.
Who can tell what thoughts came to that brave child as she thus watched
over his sleep? The long hours on the lonely battle-field, full of the
dead and dying, slowly dragged on. The great dipper wheeled in circle;
the moon rose; the dawn came; still the girl, with the groans of the
dying around her, held the wounded boy in her arms.[1]
[Footnote 1: Fact.]
Is there a painter in Virginia who desires a great subject? There it
is; and it is historical.
When the sun rose, Willie Davenant opened his eyes, and gazed up into
her face.
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