Orme and I bowed our assent, and Washington thanked him with a trembling voice. He was soon wandering again, this time, apparently, among the scenes of his earlier manhood.
"Messieurs de la Garde Française," he cried, "tirez, s'il vous plait!"
"Ah," murmured Orme, "he is at Fontenoy."
And again,—
"Poor Fanny, I always thought she would play till she would be forced to tuck herself up."
"She was his sister," said Orme, answering our questioning glances. "She ruined herself at cards and then hanged herself. It was a sad story."
And yet again,—
"No, I'll not take your purse!" he cried; and then after a moment, "nor ask my life at your hands. Do what you will."
I could bear no more, and rode forward out of earshot. To see this gallant man lying there, slowly dying, bereft at one stroke of life and that far dearer to him than life, his military reputation, moved me as few things had ever done. He had another lucid interval toward the middle of the afternoon, and warmly praised the conduct of his officers.
"They were gallant boys, every one," he said. "They did their duty as brave men should. How many of them fell?" he asked suddenly, turning to Orme.