"Report to General Hope that I am wounded," said he, calmly, "and desire him to assume the command."
Quentin observed that Sir John's sword had got entangled in the wound, and that the hilt was actually entering it. On this, Captain Hardinge kindly and gently attempted to unbuckle it.
"Never mind it, dear Hardinge," said the dying hero; "I had rather it should go out of the field with me."
Fast flowed the blood, and the torture of the complicated wound was terrible! His hands were become cold and clammy, and his face grew deadly pale in the dusky twilight.
"Colonel Graham of Balgowan, and Captain Woodford of the Guards, are both gone for surgeons," said Quentin, in his ear, while Captain Hardinge now strove in vain to stop the crimson current with his sash; "they will soon be here."
"You will recover from your injuries," said Hardinge; "I can perceive it, Sir John, by the expression of your eyes."
"No, Hardinge," said he, gravely; "I feel that to be impossible!"
Several times he made the bearers turn him round that he might behold the field of battle, and then a sublime expression stole over his fine face on seeing that everywhere the French were falling back, and that his slender army, after all its sufferings, was triumphant!
At this moment a spring waggon passed, in which lay Colonel Wynch, of the 4th Regiment, who was wounded.
"Who's in that blanket?" asked the colonel, faintly.