Suddenly, as in a dream, I heard voices, and a French section arrived on the height where I had fallen. Very plucky, despising danger, the men knelt, and with careful aim fired.
A sergeant approached me. “Wounded, old chap?”
“You are advancing, then? All the better. You must try to take me away, won’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered; “reinforcements are coming, and here’s a stretcher-bearer.”
It was true. A stretcher-bearer was close beside me. Helped by the sergeant, he looked to see where I was wounded.
They cut the legs of my trousers, took off my boots; no trace of anything. They raised my overcoat and saw the blood flowing abundantly. I did not see them, I did not hear them, but I felt their looks condemned me. They lightly dressed my wound.
“It is nothing,” said one; “wait a little; they will take you away in a moment.”
The battle continued, the bullets whistled around us, ricochetting from the stones in the road, cutting the branches of the trees. The enemy could not be far away, for their artillery was silent.
“Your rifle is all right?” a man asked me.
“Yes; take it.”