"I feel so tired. Where am I, did you say?" Then passing her hands
over her eyes, "How dark it seems" (it was mid forenoon). "I think--
I'll--rest." And she sank down in a deathly swoon.
"Jee-hoshaphat, Jack!" a trooper in the background was saying. "That
was _her_ nigger you chaps bowled over. And now she's asking for him."
"What did the fool run up against our guns for, in that cast-iron
hurry?" sullenly grumbled the other, who was really sorry for the
mistake. "It wasn't our faults, was it?"
"Of course not, old man," rejoined the other. "It was nobody's fault--
only the nigger's misfortune. Accidents will happen."
Such the epitaph on the faithful, loyal savage, who having watched over
the helpless refugee for days and nights that he might restore her to
friends and safety, had found his reward. Shot on sight, by those very
friends, when in the act of consummating his loyalty, such was his
epitaph. "Accidents will happen!"