"Worth a walk across," conceded the soldier-aviator, moving that way. Henri, interest aroused, made it a point to outpace his companion.
Drawing nearer, the investigators saw, in half-sitting posture, back against a blanket roll, a soldier—in dark-blue uniform, Austrian infantry—marked by emblems of rank, including a sparkling decoration on the breast.
A silver flask lay close by, alongside of sword and belt.
Schneider dropped to his knees, seized one of the nerveless hands of the officer, and fingered the pulse of the lifted wrist. The old campaigner had noted that the blood curdle in a tunic fold was yet unfrozen.
"Hand me that flask."
Henri quickly complied with his comrade's request, first unscrewing the metal top. Schneider tenderly moved the head of the officer to his own shoulder and poured the contents of the flask through the livid lips.
"He lives!" cried Schneider.
The evidence was a faint flutter of the eyelids, a twitching of fingers and labored breathing.
Henri unrolled the blanket that served as a backrest, made a pillow of the wounded soldier's knapsack, and Schneider shifted his burden to this new resting place.