Always in the front rank, Felix fights on. Twice have the men at his right and left fallen, but all the balls whistle past him--from second to second he expects death, but it comes not.
There are not thirty men left of his battalion; orderlies fly to and fro, the officers are hoarse, then suddenly the cry, "Retreat!"
Retreat!
Felix stands as if rooted to the ground--Retreat! What, shall he flee? No! But captivity, in which, bound as he is by his promise, he would not have the right to take his life! And he retreats with the others, who now join the great mass. Their pace becomes more and more irregular and hurried.
The evening is dark, the enemy behind them, the few riflemen are among the last. A standard-bearer sinks down, wounded in the knee by a stray shot. No one troubles himself about him or the flag.
What is the flag? Nothing but a soiled, torn rag. Nothing but--the symbol of the regiment's honor.
Honor! The word has a mysterious, alluring sound for Felix, somewhat as the word water has for one perishing in the desert.
Honor! honor! He takes the flag from the standard-bearer's hand, who pleads piteously that he may at least be pushed into a ditch and not trodden upon like a worm. Felix performs this service for him, and remains far behind his comrades. At length he raises the flag and is about to proceed with it.
But, deathly wearied as he is, he can scarcely carry it, so he tears the flag from the pole, and breaking this over his knee he wishes to bury both pieces in the slime of the ditch, but before he has accomplished this a little band of Prussian cavalry approaches. He lays his hand on his gun, but if he defends himself, defends himself so that they must kill him, the flag is forfeited. He then stretches himself in the mire of the road, flat on his face over the flag, as to-day he has seen many of his comrades, shot through the heart.
The horses trot past him; one of them starts back from him, this rider looks before him, sees what he takes for a corpse and passes on.