“Malediction!” he whispered. “Who had the daring?”
The man saluted.
“It is Corporal Lebrun, Monsieur. He gave one cry—thus; and I saw him fall. He was hit over the heart at Essling, and only his cartouchier saved him; but he has complained since of an oppression. I think the closeness, the thunder——”
The officer interrupted him:
“That will do. You had no right to leave your post. Return to it.”
The soldier saluted again, wheeled, and retreated. De Sainte Croix bent over the fallen man.
“How is it, Lebrun?”
The corporal lay with a ghastly face, his breath labouring, his chest lifting in spasms. He was not a young man, yet prematurely aged, toughened, grizzled, tanned like old leather in the service of his god. There was a wild, lost look in his eyes which betokened the coming end. He struggled to speak.
“Lift me up, monsieur, in God’s name!”
De Sainte Croix took the livid head on his knee. The posture somewhat eased the fighting heart.