Unable to relieve their racking pains, and to
assist them in their boundless misery, it only remained for him to sink
down among them, or to avert his eyes, to close his ears to their
supplications, and escape with hurried steps from this atmosphere of
blood and putrefaction, in order to rescue his own life from the
clutches of death.
He hastened, therefore, but his tearful eyes greeted the poor sufferers
whom he passed on his way, and his quivering lips muttered a prayer for
them.
At length the first and most horrible part of this dreadful field was
passed, and he escaped from the chaos of the dead and wounded. That
part, across which he was walking now, was less saturated with gore, and
the number of corpses scattered over it was much smaller. Here and there
was the wreck of a cannon besmeared with blood and mire, and empty
knapsacks, fragments of broken wagons and muskets, in the utmost
disorder and confusion.
"Spoils for the marauders," whispered the wounded officer, pressing on.
"It seems they have not been here yet. God have mercy on me, if they
should come now and look on me, too, as their spoil!"
He glanced around anxiously, and in doing so his eye beheld an
unsheathed, blood-stained sabre lying near his feet. He made an effort
to take it up regardless of the blood which, in consequence of the
effort, trickled again in larger drops from his wounds.
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