“At your service, madame,” he said. “Is this officer dead?”
“Dying, general,” said the Rittmeister, at salute.
“Then he will not require these men. Herr Rittmeister, I take your Uhlans for my escort. Madame, you have my sympathy; can I be of service?”
He spoke perfect French. The Countess looked up at him in a bewildered way. “You cannot mean to abandon this dying man here?” she asked.
There was a silence, broken brusquely by the Rittmeister. “That Frenchman did his duty!”
“Did he?” said the general, staring at the Countess. 64
“Very well; I want that carriage, but I won’t take it. Give the driver a white flag, and have him drive into the French lines. Herr Rittmeister, give your orders! Madame, your most devoted!” And he wheeled his beautiful horse and trotted off down the road, while the Rittmeister hastily tied a handkerchief to a stick and tossed it up to the speechless peasant on the box.
“Morsbronn is the nearest French post!” he said, in French. Then he bent from his horse and looked down at me.
“You did your duty!” he snapped, and, barely saluting the Countess, touched spurs to his mount and disappeared, followed at a gallop by his mud-splashed Uhlans.