Four of his officers dragged him from the ruins; he was covered with dust and blood, and almost speechless.
The first line of the Swedes was beginning to fall back.
The swooning King perceived this, but he was almost past speech.
The Muscovite cannonade was so continuous and fierce that those about the King thought of retreating also, to get their master to a place of safety in the rear.
A stretcher was hastily constructed of pikes, and the King was raised shoulder high.
He raised himself on his elbow and cried out for his sword which he had dropped; they gave him this, and a pistol which he grasped in his left hand.
His blue eyes, inflamed with rage and pain, shot a desperate glance over the battle-field. On every side the Swedes were giving way; each line falling back on the other, and the cavalry breaking at either wing.
“Swedes! Swedes!” cried the King.
Rallying his strength with a mighty effort he directed his bearers to take him to the head of several regiments, mentioning these by name. But it was too late; already everything was in irredeemable confusion; General Poniatowski forced his way through the mêlée to the King, and ordered the soldiers to take him to the rear.
Karl made a sign with his head that he would not go, but he could not speak.