"To be cut off in the very hour of victory!" exclaimed Humphrey, with a burst of sorrow. "It is too hard--too hard!"
"Yet it is what he desired for himself," said Julian, in a low voice. I think it is what he himself would have chosen."
"He has suffered more than any of us can well imagine," said the surgeon gravely. "We can scarcely grudge to him the rest and peace of the long, last sleep."
Humphrey turned away to dash the tears from his eyes. In his silent, dog-like fashion, he had loved their young General with a great and ardent love, and it cut him to the heart to see him lying there white and pulseless, his life ebbing slowly away, without hope of a rally.
A sign from somebody at a little distance attracted his attention. He crossed the open space of ground, and bent over Fritz, who lay bandaged and partially helpless amongst the wounded, but with all his faculties clear.
"What is it they are saying all around?" he asked anxiously. "How goes the battle? how is it with our General?"
"The battle truly is won--or so I believe," answered Humphrey, in a husky voice. "God grant that the gallant Wolfe may live to know that success has crowned his efforts--that the laurel wreath will be his, even though it be only laid upon his tomb!"
"Is he then wounded?"
"Mortally, they say."
A spasm of pain contracted Fritz's face.