"I have done my duty, Major Kolbach; your orders are obeyed."
Then, without another word, he drew out his revolver, put it rapidly to his temple, and blew out his brains [an historical fact].
Brutal as Major Kolbach was, he started back in horror as the young lieutenant fell dead at his feet; while a cry of surprise and consternation broke from the men. The major did not say a word, but turned away and paced up and down, with disturbed steps; while the other lieutenant bent over the body of his comrade and, seeing that he was dead, in a hushed voice ordered the men who had run up to dig a grave, under the trees, and bring him there.
When this was done he ordered the men to fall in--placing the Barclays, and Tim in their midst--and then went up to the major and saluted, saying coldly that the men were ready to march. The major nodded, signed to the orderly who was holding his horse to approach, vaulted into the saddle, and rode along the road back toward the main body of the army. The lieutenant gave the word, and the column marched off; leaving behind it the still smoking houses, and the still warm bodies of some sixty men.
There was a general gloom over the faces of the men; and no one could suppose, from their air, that they were returning from a successful expedition, in which they had annihilated a body of enemy fifty strong, with the loss of only five or six of their own men. Discipline was, however, too strict for a word of blame, or even of comment to be spoken; and not a sound was heard but the heavy, measured tramp as the troops marched back through the forests. The major rode on, moodily, some forty or fifty yards ahead of the main body.
They had not gone half a mile before there was a shot fired in the wood, close to the road. The major gave a start, and nearly fell from his horse; then recovered himself, and turned to ride back to the column, when there was another shot, and he fell off his horse, heavily, to the ground.
The column had instinctively halted, and the lieutenant gave the word, "Load."
A shout of triumph was heard in the wood, "Thirty-one!" and then all was still.
"That's the old fellow who saved my life, ten days ago, Percy," Ralph said; "and by Jove! much obliged to him as I was, then, I do think that I am more grateful now."
Finding that the shots were not repeated, some twenty or thirty skirmishers were sent into the woods; but returned, in ten minutes, without finding any trace of the man who had shot the major.