‘He was with me, surely,’ said Herbert; ‘but no, now that I remember, I think he went on with the Colonel and the rest. Good God! he must have been in all that hot work: you saw nothing of him as you passed the sally-port?’
‘No, but let us go and look; the bugles are sounding a halt, and you have done enough to-day; so trouble yourself no further; we have gained the ascent, and the enemy is flying in all directions.’
As they spoke, they passed through the sally-port into the open space beyond, where many a poor fellow lay writhing in his death-agony, vainly crying for water, which was not immediately to be found. Many men of Herbert’s own company, faces familiar to him from long companionship, lay now blue and cold in death, their glazed and open eyes turned upwards to the bright sun, which to them shone no longer. His favourite sergeant in particular attracted his notice, who was vainly endeavouring to raise himself up to breathe, on account of the blood which nearly choked him.
‘I am sorry to see this, Sadler,’ said Herbert kindly, as he seated him upright.
‘Do not think of me, sir,’ said the poor fellow; ‘Mr. Balfour is badly hurt. I was with him till I received the shot, but they have taken him yonder behind the rock.’
‘Then I must leave you, and will send some one to you;’ and Herbert and Dalton hurried on.
Behind the rock, almost on the brink of the precipice, and below the wall, there was a shady place, formed by the rock itself and by the spreading branches of a Peepul-tree which rustled gently over it. This served for a kind of hospital; and the surgeons of the force, as one by one they came up, lent their aid to dress the wounds of such as offered themselves.
There, supported by two men of his company, and reclining upon the ground with such props as could be hastily arranged around him, lay Charles Balfour—his fair and handsome features disfigured by a gaping wound in his cheek, and wearing the ghastly colour and pinched expression which is ever attendant upon mortal gun-shot wounds. Both saw at once that there was no hope; but he was still alive, and, as he heard footsteps approaching, his dim and already glazed eye turned to meet the sound, and a faint smile passed over his countenance, evidently of recognition of his companions. They knelt down by him gently, and each took the hand he offered.
‘I thought,’—he said with much difficulty and very faintly,—‘I thought I should have died without seeing you; and I am thankful, so thankful that you have come! Now, I go in peace. A few moments more, and I shall see you and this bright earth and sky no more. You will write, Herbert, to—to—’ He could not say—mother.
‘I will, I will do all you say, dear Charles; now do not speak—it hurts you.’