“I must go back to refill the flask; there are but a few drops of water left in it,” observed one of the men.
Fritz half raised himself on his elbow with a desperate effort.
“Help! help!” he cried out; for the very name of water made his thirst more intense.
“Here, my poor fellow! would that I had more with me!” said the bearer of the flask, stooping down to pour its last contents into the mouth of the wounded young soldier.
There was again a faint groan from Carl Gesner. He was then too faint to speak, but his groan fell on the ear of Fritz Arnt. “If thine enemy thirst, give him to drink.” Fritz in the midst of his pain and want remembered the Lord’s command.
“Give it to that man instead,” he murmured; “he is more badly wounded than I am.” And with the generous request on his lips the brave soldier fainted again.
There lay Fritz, twice a conqueror—over the foe, and over himself. God had given him the victory.
When Fritz awoke again from what had seemed the slumber of death, he found himself in an hospital, to which the helpers of the wounded had borne him. There he lay for many weeks, during the latter part of the time nursed by his own dear mother. During his slow recovery, Fritz was cheered by the knowledge that he had been enabled to do his duty, and by tidings of one triumph after another gained by the arms of Prussia.
Fritz was at length able to leave the hospital, but he was too lame to rejoin the army. He had to go back with his mother to their poor home, which would be poorer, Fritz thought, than ever; for he was too weak for labour, and while his mother had been nursing him, she could not earn money by work.