CHAPTER LXVIII.
THE END OF THE CHAIN.
We are conscious that the description of the great battle just given is but a poor and lame delineation, and we can only plead defective powers in that department of art—the treatment of battle-pieces.
We cannot describe the appearance of the battle-field after the combat, any more than the contest.
Wounded and crack-crowned, groaning and muttering heroes dragging themselves away—this is the resumé which we find it in our power alone to give.
One hero only seems to be seriously injured.
He is a man of forty-five or fifty, with a heavy black beard, thick sensual lips, and dog-like face. He is clad roughly; and the few words which he utters prove that he is a German.
The fight has taken place opposite Mr. Rushton's office, and thither this man is borne.
Mr. Rushton growls, and demands how he had the audacity to break the peace. The man mutters. Mr. Rushton observes that he will have him placed in the stocks, and then sent to jail. The German groans.
Suddenly Mr. Rushton feels a hand upon his arm. He turns round: it is
Redbud.