"By washing the gore from her beautiful hair—oichone! and her neck, poor innocent!" A big tear trembled on the sturdy sergeant's eye-lashes. "She often spoke very kindly to me, sir," he added.
"I thank you, Phadrig, for the gentle and delicate thought," said I; "get me some water."
The honest fellow ran to an adjacent runnel, and brought me some water in his bonnet. I knelt down, and tore my white silk scarf (we all wore Scottish scarfs), and bathed the face, neck, and hair of Gabrielle. I closed her eyes, and arranged her luxuriant tresses about her head, so as to conceal that terrible wound from whence her pure spirit had gone to happier regions. I dropped more than one hot tear upon her pallid face, as I kissed her cold lips with all the affection of a brother, and spread my tartan plaid over her.
It would have been a fine subject for a picture—that poor girl's body lying lifeless on the ground, and the grim group of kilted soldiers standing gravely and sadly around it, leaning on their muskets; and some there were, whose eyes, though dimmed by honest emotion, had looked on many a battle-field—stout fellows who would march to the cannon's mouth; but were now recalling those prayers for the dead, which their Highland mothers had taught them in other times, when James of Jerusalem and Father Ignatius had preached to the Catholic clans.
When all our party had returned, a bier was formed by stretching my plaid between two sergeants' halberts, and thus the remains of Gabrielle were borne by Phadrig Mhor and Gillian M'Bane towards our cantonments.
All who, like myself, have marched between Helnœsland and Hesinge, must have remarked a little roadside tavern near the head of the bay.
There we first carried the body, and after procuring a more suitable bier, set out on our mournful journey for Hesinge.
How can I describe the grief of Ernestine!
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