Scarcely had the captain entered when he stopped and glanced around in search of his subordinate.
At that moment he heard, near by, his name called faintly:
“Captain!”
He turned. It was the little drummer. He was stretched upon a wooden cot, covered up to the neck with a coarse old red and white check window curtain, his arms lying outside, pale and thin, but with his eyes burning like two coals of fire.
“What! is it thou?” asked the captain in a surprised, abrupt manner. “Bravo! thou hast fulfilled thy duty.”
“I did all that was possible,” replied the drummer.
“Art thou wounded?” asked the captain, glancing around at the beds, in search of his lieutenant.
“What could you expect?” replied the boy, who was eager to speak of the honor of being wounded for the first time, otherwise he would not have dared to open his lips before his captain.
“I ran as long as I could with my head down, but, though I crouched, the Austrians saw me immediately. I would have arrived twenty minutes earlier had they not wounded me. Fortunately I met a captain of the general’s staff, to whom I gave the note. But it was with great effort I got along after that. I was dying with thirst. I was afraid I could not arrive in time. I cried with rage, thinking that every minute’s delay sent one of ours to the other world. But at last I did all I could. I am content. But look, captain, and excuse me, you are bleeding!”
In fact, from the palm of the badly bandaged hand the blood was flowing.