The surgeon came from this inner apartment and said the Count slept.
William's eyes looked a question.
"When he wakes?" said the surgeon. "I fear, Your Highness, that when he wakes it will be but a waking to death."
He bowed and took his leave; he had many cases in the camp.
The Prince turned his gaze towards the purple curtains and leant back heavily in his chair. It seemed as if all his friends, all who loved him, trusted him, served him, were to be taken from him, involved in the common misfortune he had brought on them.
It seemed ironical, a needless cruelty, that the brave, generous, and gay Hoogstraaten should die.
His wound had been caused by the chance discharge of his own pistol, and at first had not seemed dangerous, but he had sunk into weakness and fever, a sickness perhaps as much of a despairing mind as of a wounded body, and now he lay slipping into death.
It had been an added torture to William to listen to the sick man's delirium—all on the theme of the dissolving army, the fruitless campaign, the liabilities of the commanders, the useless slaughter on the Geta, for which the poor Count held himself responsible.
"Supplies, supplies, if we could but get supplies, if we could but keep the men together!" had been the burden of the dying soldier's delirium, and William passionately wished that some good news might come if only to allow Hoogstraaten to die in peace.
But no good news did come; rather was misfortune heaped on misfortune.