“Come here, Major, come here!” cried a voice at a little distance.
“Follow me, O’Malley,” cried O’Shaughnessy, moving in the direction of the speaker.
By the light of a lantern we could descry two officers kneeling upon the ground; between them on the grass lay the figure of a third, upon whose features, as the pale light fell, the hand of death seemed rapidly stealing. A slight froth, tinged with blood, rested on his lip, and the florid blood which stained the buff facing of his uniform indicated that his wound was through the lungs.
“He has fainted,” said one of the officers, in a low tone.
“Are you certain it is fainting?” said the other, in a still lower.
“You see how it is, Charley,” said O’Shaughnessy; “this poor boy must be carried to the rear. Will you then, like a kind fellow, hasten back to Colonel Campbell and mention the fact. It will kill Beauclerc should any doubt rest upon his conduct, if he ever recover this.”
While he spoke, four soldiers of the regiment placed the wounded officer in a blanket. A long sigh escaped him, and he muttered a few broken words.
“Poor fellow, it’s his mother he’s talking of! He only joined a month since, and is a mere boy. Come, O’Malley, lose no time. By Jove! it is too late; there goes the first rocket for the columns to form. In ten minutes more the stormers must fall in.”
“What’s the matter, Giles?” said he to one of the officers, who had stopped the soldiers as they were moving off with their burden,—“what is it?”
“I have been cutting the white tape off his arm; for if he sees it on waking, he’ll remember all about the storming.”