One day we remembered that none of us had seen him for several days, and we started in search of him.

We found him in a distant part of the camp, lying near the Dead Line.

His long fair hair was matted together, his blue eyes had the flush of fever.

Every part of his clothing was gray with the lice that were hastening his death with their torments.

He uttered the first complaint I ever heard him make, as I came up to him: "My Gott, M -- --, dis is worse dun a dog's det!" In a few days we gave him all the funeral in our power; tied his big toes together, folded his hands across his breast, pinned to his shirt a slip of paper, upon which was written: VICTOR E.SEITZ, Co.