Julian half expected resistance on the part of Wolfe; but no word passed his lips. They were growing ashy white.
With a groan of anguish--for he felt as though he knew what was coming--Julian bent to the task, and the pair conveyed the light, frail form through the melee of the battlefield towards the place where the wounded had been carried, and where Fritz still lay. A surgeon came hastily forward, and seeing who it was, uttered an exclamation of dismay.
Wolfe opened his dim eyes. He saw Julian's face, but all the rest was blotted out in a haze.
"Lay me down," he said faintly; "I want nothing."
"The surgeons are here," said Julian anxiously as they put him out of the hot rays of the sun, which was now shining over heights and plains.
"They can do nothing for me," said Wolfe, in the same faint, dreamy way; "let them look to those whom they can help."
A death-like faintness was creeping over him. The surgeon put a stimulating draught to his lips; and when a part had been swallowed, proceeded to make a partial examination of the injuries sustained. But when he had opened the breast of his coat and saw two orifices in the neighbourhood of the heart, he shook his head, and laid the wounded man down to rest.
Julian felt a spasm of pain shoot through his heart, like a thrust from a bayonet.
"Can you do nothing?" he asked in a whisper.
"Nothing," was the reply. "He has not an hour to live."