Near him lay his countryman, General Anstruther, who had died of suffering and privations on the march.
Hastily the burial service was read, and the soldiers of the brave old 9th covered him up, literally, "the sod with their bayonets turning."
All lingered for a few minutes near the spot, and when they withdrew, there was not an eye unmoistened among them.
Thus passed away Sir John Moore, like Wolfe, in the moment of victory!
"A soldier from his earliest youth," says General Napier, "he thirsted for the honours of his profession, and feeling that he was worthy to lead a British army, hailed the fortune that placed him at the head of the troops destined for Spain. The stream of time passed rapidly, and the inspiring hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of suffering remained; with a firm heart he accepted that gift of a severe fate, and confiding in the strength of his genius, disregarded the clamours of presumptuous ignorance; opposing sound military views to the foolish projects so insolently thrust upon him by the ambassador, he conducted a long and arduous retreat with sagacity, intelligence, and fortitude. No insult could disturb, no falsehood deceive him, no remonstrances shake his determination; fortune frowned without subduing his constancy; death struck, and the spirit of the man remained unbroken, when his shattered body scarcely afforded it habitation. Having done all that was just towards others, he remembered what was due to himself. Neither the shock of the mortal blow, nor the lingering hours of acute pain which preceded his dissolution, could quell the pride of his gallant heart, or lower the feeling with which (conscious of merit) he asserted his right to the gratitude of the country he had served so truly.
"If glory be a distinction, for such a man death is not a leveller!"
CHAPTER XXI.
TOO LATE.
"The storm of fight is hushed; the mingled roar
Of charging squadrons swells the blast no more:
Gone are the bands of France; the crested pride
Of war, which lately clothed the mountain side,
Gone—as the winter cloud which tempests bear,
In broken shadows through the waste of air."
Grey dawn came slowly in, stealing over land and sea, as Quentin rode from the citadel of Corunna.