Prince Galtzine met in constantly increasing numbers wounded men borne on stretchers, others dragging themselves along on foot or supporting each other, and talking noisily.
“When they fell upon us, brothers,” said the bass voice of a tall soldier who carried two muskets on his shoulder—“when they fell upon us, shouting ‘Allah! allah!’[D] they pushed one another on. We killed the first, and others climbed over them. There was nothing to be done; there were too many of them—too many of them!”
“You come from the bastion?” asked Galtzine, interrupting the orator.
“Yes, your Excellency.”
“Well, what happened there? Tell me.”
“This happened, your Excellency—his strength surrounded us; he climbed on the ramparts and had the best of it, your Excellency.”
“How? the best of it? But you beat them back?”
“Ah yes, beat them back! But when all his strength came down upon us, he killed our men, and no help for it!”
The soldier was mistaken, for the trenches were ours; but, strange but well-authenticated fact, a soldier wounded in a battle always believes it a lost and a terribly bloody one.
“I was told, nevertheless, that you beat him back,” continued Galtzine, good-naturedly; “perhaps it was after you came away. Did you leave there long ago?”