“So be it! stay with him—if he asks for a drink you have the tea there upon the stove. You, gentlemen,” added he, addressing the brothers, who arose after making the sign of the cross, “you will return to the battle-field, I suppose?”
They silently bowed their heads, the eldest of them closed the dead man’s eyes. As they were all going out together, the assistant surgeon said to them, in a petulant tone of voice:
“Try to bring me some not quite so much used up.”
Maurice Roger was about to die, too. His shirt was stained with blood, and a stream ran down from his forehead upon his blond moustache, but he was still beautiful in his marble-like pallor. Amedee carefully raised up one of the wounded man’s arms and placed it upon the stretcher, keeping his friend’s hand in his own. Maurice moved slightly at the touch, and ended by opening his eyes.
“Ah, how thirsty I am!” he groaned.
Amedee went to the stove and got the pot of tea, and leaned over to help the unfortunate man drink it. Maurice looked at him with surprise. He recognized Amedee.
“You, Amedee!—where am I, then?”
He attempted in vain to rise. His head dropped slightly to the left, and he saw, not two steps from him, the lifeless body of his old colonel, with eyes closed and features already calmed by the first moments of perfect repose.
“My Colonel!” said he. “Ah! I understand—I remember-! How they ran away—miserable cowards! But you, Amedee? Why are you here—?”
His friend could not restrain his tears, and Maurice murmured: