“This very moment, your Excellency. The trenches must belong to him; he had the upperhand—”
“Why, aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? Abandon the trenches! It is frightful,” said Galtzine, irritated by the indifference of the man.
“What could be done when he had the strength.”
“Ah, your Excellency,” said a soldier borne on a stretcher, “why not abandon them, when he has killed us all? If we had the strength we would never have abandoned them! But what was to be done? I had just stuck one of them when I was hit—Oh, softly, brothers, softly! Oh, for mercy’s sake!” groaned the wounded man.
“Hold on; far too many are coming back,” said Galtzine, again stopping the tall soldier with the two muskets. “Why don’t you go back, hey? Halt!”
The soldier obeyed, and took off his cap with his left hand.
“Where are you going to?” sternly demanded the prince, “and who gave you permission, good-for—” But coming nearer, he saw that the soldier’s right arm was covered with blood up to the elbow.
“I am wounded, your Excellency.”
“Wounded! where?”
“Here, by a bullet,” and the soldier showed his arm; “but I don’t know what hit me a crack there.” He held his head down, and showed on the back of his neck locks of hair glued together by coagulated blood.