"You are a Yankee," he added, as he fixed his glazing eyes upon Tom's uniform.

"Are you wounded ?" "No; I am worn out.

I have eaten nothing since daylight, and not much then.

I am used up." "Put your hand in my haversack.

There is something there," gasped the dying man.
Tom bent over him to comply with the invitation; but, with a thrill of horror, he started back, as he listened to the death-rattle in the throat of the rebel, and saw his eyes fixed and lustreless in death.