In the glare of torches he found himself lying on a moving stretcher.

After that he felt straw under him; and vaguely wondered why it did not catch fire from his body, which surely now was but a mass of smouldering flame.
For days the fever wasted him--not entirely, for at intervals he heard cannon, and always the interminable picket firing; and he heard bugles, too, and recognised the various summons.

But it was no use trying to obey them--no use trying to find his legs.

He could not get up without his legs--he laughed weakly at the thought; then, drowsy, indifferent, decided that they had been shot away, but could not remember when; and it bothered him a good deal.
Other things bothered him; he was convinced that his mother was in the room.

At intervals he was aware of Hallam's handsome face, cut out like a paper picture from _Harper's Weekly_ and pasted flat on the tent wall.