The latter ordered the battle to cease and allowed the shivering remnants of the Lamanites to leave.
Night descended on the field of horrors and obliterated many of its sights, and Moroni, weary and sick at heart, made his way back to his tent. Outside a lashing rainstorm had arisen, increasing the agony of the wounded. The soldiers were clearing the field and throwing the bodies of the unnumbered dead into the river. Dreariness enveloped the general as he threw himself disconsolately down.
"A lady to see you, sir," announced the sentry at the door. Moroni started up. Doubtless some heartbroken mother come in search of her son. Was there no end?
"Admit her," he ordered curtly.
A woman clad in a rough brown cloak entered. She threw back her hood from which her head emerged like a gorgeous poppy.
Moroni started toward her. "Zorabel," he exclaimed.
"Thank God you are safe!" she withdrew her hand from his compeling grasp to feel the massive armor on his shoulders, to assure herself that he was not hurt.
"This is no place for you. How did you come here?" he gently chided.
"Since you left I have been in torment. When I heard of a clash of arms on the other side of the river, I jumped on my swiftest steed. See how fast I rode. It shook down all my hair." She showed him her black hair streaming almost to her knees. "When I reached the lines they said you barely escaped death today," her voice broke.
"I suppose I should have been killed if it hadn't been for Amalickiah! Your brother saved my life."