The captain started back a pace in horror.
The lad had but one leg. His left leg had been amputated above the knee; the stump was swathed in blood-stained cloths.
At that moment a small, plump, military surgeon passed, in his shirt-sleeves. “Ah, captain,” he said, rapidly, nodding towards the drummer, “this is an unfortunate case; there is a leg that might have been saved if he had not exerted himself in such a crazy manner—that cursed inflammation! It had to be cut off away up here. Oh, but he’s a brave lad. I can assure you! He never shed a tear, nor uttered a cry! He was proud of being an Italian boy, while I was performing the operation, upon my word of honor. He comes of a good race, by Heavens!” And away he went, on a run.
The captain wrinkled his heavy white brows, gazed fixedly at the drummer-boy, and spread the coverlet over him again, and slowly, then as though unconsciously, and still gazing intently at him, he raised his hand to his head, and lifted his cap.
“Signor Captain!” exclaimed the boy in amazement. “What are you doing, captain? To me!”
And then that rough soldier, who had never said a gentle word to an inferior, replied in an indescribably sweet and affectionate voice, “I am only a captain; you are a hero.”
Then he threw himself with wide-spread arms upon the drummer-boy, and kissed him three times upon the heart.
THE LOVE OF COUNTRY.
Tuesday, 24th.