Fritz then proceeded to open the dead officer’s jacket, in order to search for any papers or articles of value, which he might keep and forward to his relatives. Previously, the dog would not allow him to touch the body at all, but now he did not offer any objection, so Fritz turned out all the pockets. He could discover no paper, however, nor any trace of identity. The only token he could find was a little silver ring wrapped in a small piece of paper, inscribed, “From my beloved, 18th July, 1870.” This was carefully enclosed in a little bag of silk, and suspended by a ribbon round the poor young fellow’s neck, resting on the cold and lifeless spot where his heart once used to beat.
“A love gage,” said Heinrich sympathisingly.
“Ah, yes,” replied Fritz; “and the poor girl will, I suppose, continue to look out for him, hoping to see him again, while he lies here in a nameless tomb! Never mind, I will keep the token and the dog; perhaps I may discover her and his friends some day through them. Now, let us make the grave quickly, comrade, and commit him to his rest!”
In silence the two then dug a low trench in the soil beneath the tree where the officer had found his death, and then reverently laid him in it. He had died calmly from the effects of a bullet which must have penetrated his brain, as only a small blue orifice was to be seen in the centre of his forehead; and a smile was on his handsome young face, as if no painful thought had vexed his last moment.
During the sad obsequies, the dog kept close to the side of Fritz, watching attentively everything that was done, without stirring or uttering a sound, save when they shovelled the earth on his poor master’s breast. He then gave vent to a short, angry bark; but, on Fritz speaking to him soothingly, he again became quiet, remaining so to the end, when he laid down on the newly-made grave, with a deep, low whine that was almost a sigh, that seemed to come from the bottom of his faithful canine heart!
From a piece of broken wood close by, Fritz then carved a rude cross, which he fixed in the ground at the head of the poor young fellow’s last resting-place, inscribing on it the words: “To a French officer. Peace to his remains. The grave knows no enmities! 18th August, 1870.”
The date on this unknown victim’s grave was exactly one month later than that on which he must have parted from his sweetheart. What a strange fatality, pondered Fritz and his companion, that one who had probably been so much loved and cared for, should be indebted for the last friendly offices which man or woman could render him—to strangers! “May he rest in peace!” said Fritz, uncovering his head as he turned away, and then putting on his helmet again.
“So, too, I wish,” echoed Heinrich. “We can do no more for him, poor youth!”
“No,” said Fritz; “we’d better go now. Come on, old fellow!” he added, with a whistle to the retriever, who, wise dog that he was, seeing he could do no further good to the one to whom he had been faithful in life and watched in death as long as he was able, now answered the call of the new friend whom Providence had sent him. Without any demur he returned with Fritz and Heinrich to the Hanoverian camp, following close behind the heels of the former, as if recognising him as his master in the place of him whom he had lost.
Fritz christened this treasure trove of the battlefield “Gelert”; and like that trusty hound of old, the animal became known to all the men in a very short while. He was formally adopted, indeed, as the pet of the regiment, besides coming in for Fritz’s own special care, being known even to the general in command of the division as “the dog of the sub-lieutenant of Gravelotte.”