“Not yet! Not yet!”
The ancient Germans represented their god of war as huge, blonde, and bearded; Gavin Hamilton would have said that Frederick of Prussia, unhorsed, defeated, and almost captured, was the ideal of the lord of battles.
In another moment a regiment of Prussian hussars appeared as if they had sprung out of the ground, their horses plunging over every obstacle, their sabres flashing right and left; and encircling the King, he was swept out of sight like magic. It was over in the twinkling of an eye—one instant Gavin had Frederick by the arm, looking into his blue and blazing eyes; the next instant there was a trampling of iron hoofs, a flashing of steel, a torrent of men, and Gavin had dropped to his knees without so much as feeling a blow. Only everything grew suddenly indistinct and far away, and then he knew no more.
It seemed to him but another instant before he revived, perfectly alive to everything, but it was strangely quiet after the fierce confusion of the last charge. There was still fighting going on, but it was far at the other end of the village, and elsewhere it seemed to be quite over. He opened his eyes, and glanced upward; the mist was rolling off the valleys, and the sun, shining in unclouded splendour, was high in the heavens. It must be at least nine o’clock, thought Gavin, and he knew it was not more than six when the order to charge was given. He concluded that he had been knocked on the head by a Prussian musket or a horse’s hoof. Glancing around again, he saw himself in a pool of blood. A dozen men lay in ghastly attitudes near him, and within touch of his hand was a dead horse. Gavin recognized the horse—it was the one ridden by the King of Prussia.
He grew faint presently, and concluded it was the neighbourhood of the horse; he tried to get up and walk away, which he failed to accomplish, and knew no more. When he next came to himself, he was lying in a little cart jolting along the road, and his head was aching miserably. He was in the open country, and the stars were shining overhead. It was very cold, and St. Arnaud was holding his head and trying to wrap him the better in cloaks. Gavin made quite sure before he spoke; then he said:
“St. Arnaud, is the King of Prussia a prisoner?”
“No. As well try to take the devil prisoner as that man.”
A pause.
“But for the wound in my head I could have done it. I had my hand on him.”
“It would take ten thousand men like you to carry off that Frederick of Prussia. The Prussian hussars did for you and the rest of our poor fellows very handsomely.”