“Children, is this all that is left of you?”
“Yes, father, we are the last,” said an old gray-headed officer, standing before the king. “There were many thousands of us, now there are two hundred and fifty.”
“Two hundred and fifty!” repeated the king, with a bitter smile.
“And it was not our fault,” continued the old officer, “that we did not fall with the rest. We fought as bravely as they; but Death did not want us. Perhaps he thought it best to leave a few of us, to guard our king. We all think so! Some were left to repay those abominable Saxons for their to-day’s work.”
“And why alone the Saxons?” asked the king.
“Because it was those infamous Saxon troops that hewed down our regiment. They fell upon us like devils, and striking their cursed swords into us, cried out, ‘This is for Striegau!’”
“Ah! you see,” cried the king, “that while beating you, they could but think of the many times you had conquered them.”
“They shall think of this again, father,” said another soldier, raising himself with great pain from the ground. “Wait until our wounds have healed, and we will repay them with interest.”
“You are wounded, Henry?” said the king.
“Yes, your majesty, in the arm.”