Again and again in their sad progress he desired a halt, that he might watch what was going on, and might listen to the fainter sound of the enemy's musketry, as the French were driven back.
Presently they were overtaken by a spring wagon, containing a wounded officer; and here again a slight pause took place, during which Roy Baron joined the mournful cavalcade, not yet knowing what it meant.
A question put by the officer in the wagon, "Who was that in the blanket?" brought an answer which sent a sickening shock through Roy's whole frame.
Would not Sir John like to be placed in the wagon? The officer earnestly suggested this. Moore did not refuse, but he looked at one of the Highlanders, and asked his opinion—would the wagon or the blanket be best? The man advised the latter. "It will not shake you so much, sir," he said; "and we can keep step, and carry you more easy."
"I think so too," Sir John quietly said, and they went on their way as before. By this time the hardy Guardsmen and Highlanders who carried him were one and all in tears.
Roy came close to the younger of the two surgeons, with whom he was slightly acquainted, and murmured, "Wounded!"
"Badly," was the low answer.
"But not—not—He'll get over it!"
Roy knew what the silence meant. After a break, the surgeon said, "We have not examined the wound yet. You are hurt."
"It's nothing. Just a cut. But that he—that he—"