Then a little group approached, the leader being a surgeon, who stooping down shook his head in grief.
The others brought water and bandages, and he washed away the blood, leaving the face wan and colourless. Then he loosened my brother's jacket, uttering a hasty exclamation at sight of something beneath.
I sat stupid with grief beside the wounded lad, nothing rousing me till I beheld the closely-cropped hair and rugged features of General Görgei.
"My poor boy!" said he, in a tone soft and caressing as a woman's. "Stephen, don't you know me? I am Arthur Görgei. Look at me, my dear young friend," and he gently chafed my brother's hand.
At the general's words Stephen opened his eyes, and looked at Görgei with a feeble smile.
"It's--all--right--general," he murmured very softly, and his eyes closed again.
Görgei stooped and kissed the boyish face tenderly.
"As gallant a youth as ever fought for Hungary, and worthy of his honourable name!" said he with deep feeling.
Then, turning to me, he spoke some kindly words, and, having questioned the surgeon privately, went his way.
The master of legions has little time for private griefs; and indeed this visit to my brother, taking place as it did before anything else was done, furnished matter for much talk in the army.