Mechanically, at the word of command, all the men make a nervous start. Those who are legless prop themselves on their hands and arms; and some stand painfully erect on their crutches, and their wasted fingers are raised in salute, to where the helmet or the Highland bonnet would have been; but, alas! a hospital nightcap is only there now!
Men of all regiments are there—horse, foot, and artillery, guardsmen, hussars, and lancers; but all wear one sad uniform now.
That morning was long remembered in Fort Pitt; and it was one which, no doubt, our good Queen long remembered too.
With a last effort, Willie rallied, and propped himself at the window, just as a hospital orderly pinned on his blue woollen gown a card like those worn by all the others, stating the age, name, and corps of the wearer. It bore—
"William Pitblado—aged twenty-four—lancer—leg amputated—Battle of Balaclava."
The card, as it was pinned on, caught the eyes of the royal group, and the terrible expression that none can mistake—even those who luckily see it for the first time—was read in Willie's face.
"Do not speak to him, please, your Majesty," whispered the commandant; "his aspect must distress you—the man is dying."
"Dying!" exclaimed the Queen; "poor, poor fellow!"
"Pulse sinking—hope all over—will be dead before evening parade," muttered a sententious staff surgeon.
The Queen had in her hand a magnificent bouquet, presented to her by the ladies of those in the high places of Chatham garrison—heads of departments, and so forth. She detached a white rose, and gave it to the poor dying lad, whose faculties were making a rally for the last time.