“No, general,” said he, “he was dragged into a quarrel yesterday, and received a sword thrust through his body.”
Bonaparte frowned. “And yet they know very well I do not approve of duels; a soldier’s blood belongs not to himself, but to France. Give Muiron the order then.”
“He is killed, general.”
“To Elliot, in that case.”
“Killed also.”
Bonaparte drew his handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over his brow, which was bathed with sweat.
“To whom you will, then; but I want to see that lieutenant.”
He dared not name any others, fearing to hear again that fatal “Killed!”
A quarter of an hour later the young lieutenant was ushered into his tent, which was lighted faintly by a single lamp.
“Come nearer, lieutenant,” said Bonaparte.