Firing one Parthian volley: struck by it, Arnold he fell.
“FIRING ONE PARTHIAN VOLLEY.”
Ours was the day. Up we raised him; spurted the blood from his knee—
“Take this cravat, boys, and bind it; I am not dead yet,” said he.
“What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,
Leaving your duties out yonder to risk your dear self in the fight?”
“General Gates sent his orders—” faltering the aide-de-camp spoke—
“You’re to return, lest some rashness—” Fiercely the speech Arnold broke:
“Rashness! Why, yes! tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!