Half an hour brought the searchers of the Royal Picts to where young Anastasius Wilders lay. McKay was the first to find him, and he raised a shout of recognition as he ran forward to the wounded officer. Unslinging his water-bottle, he put it to his cousin's lips; but young Wilders waved the precious liquid aside, saying, although in a feeble voice—
"Thank you; but I can wait. Give it to that poor chap over there; he is far worse hit than I am."
It was a private of the regiment, whose breast a bullet had pierced, and whose tortures seemed terrible.
But now the rest of the party came up. General Wilders dismounted, flask in hand, and the wounded lad was rewarded for his self-denial.
A surgeon, too, had arrived, and he was anxiously questioned as to the nature of young Wilders's wound.
The right leg had been shattered below the knee by a round shot; the wound had bled profusely, but the poor lad managed to stanch it with his shirt.
"Can you save it?" whispered the general.
"Impossible!" replied the surgeon, in the same tone.
"We must amputate above the knee at once," and he turned up his sleeves and gave instructions to an assistant to get ready the instruments.
The operation, performed without chloroform, and borne with heroic fortitude, was over when Hugo Wilders rode up to the spot. Anastasius recognised his brother, and answered his anxious, sorrowful greeting with a faint smile.