"There is a wounded officer--one of the 23rd Fusileers," cried a driver from his saddle.
"Where?" asked a mounted officer in the blue cloak and cap of the Land Transport Corps.
"Under that dead horse, sir."
"One of the 23rd; let us see--Hardinge, by all the devils!" said the officer, who proved to be no other than Hawkesby Guilfoyle. "So-ho--steady, steady!" he added, while secretly touching his horse with the spurs to make it rear and plunge in three several attempts to tread me under its hoofs; but the terrible aspect of the dead animal smashed by the cannon-shot so scared the one he rode, that he bore on the curb in vain.
"Coward! coward!" I exclaimed, "if God spares me you shall hear of this."
"The fellow is mad or tipsy," said he; "drive on."
"But, sir--sir!" urged the driver in perplexity.
"Villain! you are my evil fate," said I faintly.
"I tell you the fellow is mad--drive on, I command you, or by----, I'll make a prisoner of you!" thundered Guilfoyle, drawing a pistol from his holster, while his shifty green eyes grew white with suppressed passion and malice; so the ambulance-cart was driven on, and I was left to my fate.
Giddy and infuriated by pain and just indignation, I lay under my cold and ghastly load, perishing of thirst, and looking vainly about for assistance.