Wondering what he meant, yet loth to thwart what I took to be the whim of a half-dazed man, I returned, picked up the severed boot with its wooden contents, and overtook my comrades, and half an hour later we were safely within the Royal lines.
Here, with considerable difficulty, we procured a rough litter, and, placing our wounded friend upon it, we bore him towards the camp, in company with a constant stream of burdens, for the most part far sadder than our own.
As we approached I noticed a group of officers standing in a respectful attitude at a short distance from a slender, heavily cloaked figure. Instinct told me it was our Sovereign, who, having by his courage inspired his troops to fight a brilliant though indecisive action, was not slow in sympathising with those who had fallen in his cause.
"'Tis the King," I whispered to our wounded companion.
"Then hand me my severed leg," he rejoined with astonishing imperativeness.
My surprise prevented me from asking the reason, and without a word I did as he requested.
As the litter approached His Majesty, I noticed Firestone feverishly employed in taking the remains of his wooden leg from the encasing leather boot, and, having done this, he began to unscrew a portion of the limb. A few turns and the leg came apart, disclosing a cavity, from which the colonel drew a lightly rolled packet of papers.
"Art badly hurt?" asked His Majesty, as the glimmer of a lantern fell upon the figure in the stretcher.
"No, sire," replied Firestone cheerfully. "'Tis not a case for the surgeon; a carpenter will suffice."
"How so, sirrah?" exclaimed the King with astonishment.