"I am somewhat exhausted," he then said; "is there anything to drink?"
Those nearest to him seized their flasks; they were empty.
"There is some sherry in our carriage," said Meding.
"And I have a travelling cup," cried Count Platen, taking a silver cup from a case.
Meding ran to the carriage, and soon returned with half a bottle of sherry and a little wheaten bread. He poured some wine into the small cup, and handed it to the king. He drank it, and ate a morsel of bread.
"Now I am strong again," he cried; "would to God that each one of my soldiers could say the same."
"I will move about a little," he then said, and taking Meding's arm he paced slowly to and fro, on the top of the hill.
"God has given our arms the victory," he said with emotion; "what is next to be done?"
"Your majesty," said Meding, "this noble blood will all have been shed in vain, if we do not march at once to Gotha, cross the railway, and endeavour to reach Bavaria."
The king sighed.