When the general had gone, the surgeon came to me. He had a pleasant face, and the horrors of war had failed to blunt the natural kindness of his heart.
"Captain Botskay," he began, "this is a very sad event; but you must be brave, and nerve yourself to bear the blow. Your brother is seriously hurt--so seriously indeed that I dare not venture to move him."
"Do you mean he is dying?" I asked hoarsely.
"One ought never to despair," he answered; "and yet I cannot hold out false hopes to you. Only a miracle, my poor boy, can save your brother's life. I have done what I can for him. He is not in pain, but his wounds are fatal. It may not be for an hour or two, but certainly he cannot live through the day."
"Thank you," I said simply, turning again to my task of watching.
At the end of an hour some one placed an open flask in my hand, saying, "Drink, my sweet master; it will keep up your strength."
It was Mecsey Sándor who had brought me food and drink.
I shook my head.
"I cannot take it," I said.
The faithful fellow insisted.