“No, no; I don't care for it now. I'll never go back to the regiment again; I could n't do it!”
As he spoke the last words his voice became fainter and fainter, and at last was lost in a hiccup; partly, as it seemed, from emotion, and partly from bodily suffering.
“Qui vive?” cried his companion, as the clash of my sabre announced my approach.
“An officer of the Eighth Hussars,” said I, in a low voice, fearing to disturb the wounded man, as he lay with his head sunk on his knees.
“Too late, Comrade! too late,” said he, in a stifled tone; “the order of route has come. I must away.”
“A brave cuirassier of the Guard should never say so while he has a chance left to serve his Emperor in another field of battle.”
“Vive l'Empereur! vive l'Empereur!” shouted he, madly, as he lifted his helmet and tried to wave it above his head. But the exertion brought on a violent fit of coughing, which choked his utterance, while a torrent of red blood gushed from his mouth, and deluged his neck and chest.
“Ah, mon Dieu! that cry has been his death,” said the other, wringing his hands in utter misery.
“Where is he wounded?” said I, kneeling down beside the sick man, who now lay, half on his face, upon the grass.
“In the chest, through the lung,” whispered the other. “He doesn't know the doctor saw him; it was he told me there was no hope. 'You may leave him,' said he; 'an hour or two more are all that 's left him;' as if I could leave a comrade we all loved. My poor fellow, it is a sad day for the old Fourth when thou art taken from them!”