On his hands and knees he crawled away from the road, and rolled himself up behind a rotten log, just in season to escape the observation of the cavalrymen as they rode by the spot.
Here and there in the woods were the extended forms of Federals and rebels, who had dragged their wounded bodies away from the scene of mortal strife to breathe their last in this holy sanctuary of nature, or to escape from the death-dealing shot, and the mangling wheels that rumbled over the dead and the dying.

Close by the soldier boy's retreat lay one who was moaning piteously for water.

Tom had filled his canteen at a brook on the way, and he crawled up to the sufferer to lave his dying thirst.

On reaching the wounded man, he found that he was a rebel, and the fate of the Zouave who had done a similar kindness only a short time before presented itself to his mind.
"Water! Water! For the love of God, give me a drop of water," moaned the dying soldier.
Tom thought of the Zouave again, and had almost steeled his heart against the piteous cry.

He turned away.
"Water! Water! If you are a Christian give me some water," groaned the sufferer.
Our soldier boy could no longer resist the appeal.