“Dubrosc! He is dead!”
His body lay spread out in its picturesque attire. A fair form it was. A bullet—my own—had passed through his heart, killing him instantly. I placed my hand upon his forehead. It was cold already, and his beautiful features were white and ashy. His eyes glared with the ghastly expression of death.
“Close them!” I said to the boy, and turned away from the spot.
Wounded men lay around, dragoons and Mexicans, and some were already dead.
A party of officers was at the moment returning from the pursuit, and I recognised my late adversary, with our seconds and surgeons. My friend Clayley had been wounded in the mêlée, and I observed that he carried his arm in a sling. A dragoon officer galloped up.
It was Colonel Harding.
“These fellows, gentlemen,” cried he, reining up his horse, “just came in time to relieve me from a disagreeable duty. I have orders from the commander-in-chief to arrest Captains Haller and Ransom.
“Now, gentlemen,” he continued with a smile, “I think you have had fighting enough for one morning, and if you will promise me to be quiet young men, and keep the peace, I shall, for once in my life, take the liberty of disobeying a general’s orders. What say you, gentlemen?”
It needed not this appeal. There had been no serious cause of quarrel between my adversary and myself, and, moved by a similar impulse, we both stepped forward and grasped one another by the hand.
“Forgive me, my dear Haller,” said Ransom, “I retract all. I assure you my remarks were only made upon the spur of the moment, when I was angry about those cursed leather breeches.”