Page:Poet Lore, volume 4, 1892.djvu/463

 beside himself: there he lay motionless, with his eyes half shut; and his heavy breath was the only sign of his life.

“It is three days now,” the parson whispered, “since he was brought hither, and the physicians give up all hope. They recommend quiet, ice, and quinine.”

I was going to speak to my friend; but seeing his hard struggle, I turned away, and we left the room. In the hall I thanked the parson for his kindness, and was about to go; but he courteously invited me to be his guest at least until the next morning. Being tired to death, I gladly accepted the invitation, and stepped with my host into a large room on the ground floor.

“Do you know anything particular about my friend’s accident, reverend sir?” I asked, as we were seated at a large table.

“In the terrible confusion that has reigned here for several days,” the parson answered, “ it was impossible to obtain any certain information; for as yet we know nothing more about the dreadful battle of the third of July than a few details we learned from those slightly wounded. The regiment of your friend took part in the battle of Jičín, where it was severed. One division retreated to Smiřice; the other, the stronger of the two, turned southward, and was then joined to the first army corps. On the third of July this division was among the reserves of the first army corps, and it appears to have been sent to the aid of those fighting near Probluz, about four o’clock in the afternoon; and in this skirmish your friend was wounded. Judging from the wound itself, he must have been struck with a sabre just as he was stooping down for something; for the upper part of the skull is almost wholly split off. His wound is a deadly one, and all physicians who have inspected the wound are not a little wondering that your friend is still alive.”

Hardly had he said this when the door opened. In came one of the men who attended the wounded and whispered something to the parson. The sad look of the priest caused me involuntarily to ask,—

“Is he dead?”

“Dead,” the parson sadly repeated.

Once more we went into the drawing-room. My friend lay on