“Friends, friends, for Heaven’s sake do not leave me here; carry me to the ambulance!”
“Dame, Captain, I don’t know that we shall be able to get so far, but we can try.”
As they were discussing how they could best take hold to raise him they perceived, behind the hedge that had sheltered them on their way up, two stretcher-bearers who seemed to be waiting for something to do, and finally, after protracted signaling, induced them to draw near. All would be well if they could only get the wounded man to the ambulance without accident, but the way was long and the iron hail more pitiless than ever.
The bearers had tightly bandaged the injured limb in order to keep the bones in position and were about to bear the captain off the field on what children call a “chair,” formed by joining their hands and slipping an arm of the patient over each of their necks, when Colonel de Vineuil, who had heard of the accident, came up, spurring his horse. He manifested much emotion, for he had known the young man ever since his graduation from Saint-Cyr.
“Cheer up, my poor boy; have courage. You are in no danger; the doctors will save your leg.”
The captain’s face wore an expression of resignation, as if he had summoned up all his courage to bear his misfortune manfully.
“No, my dear Colonel; I feel it is all up with me, and I would rather have it so. The only thing that distresses me is the waiting for the inevitable end.”
The bearers carried him away, and were fortunate enough to reach the hedge in safety, behind which they trotted swiftly away with their burden. The colonel’s eyes followed them anxiously, and when he saw them reach the clump of trees where the ambulance was stationed a look of deep relief rose to his face.
“But you, Colonel,” Maurice suddenly exclaimed, “you are wounded too!”
He had perceived blood dripping from the colonel’s left boot. A projectile of some description had carried away the heel of the foot-covering and forced the steel shank into the flesh.