It was pitch dark before he became conscious. Fires were burning at
various points along the ridge; for when the victory was complete the
British retired to the position they had held so long, and the
Prussian cavalry took up the pursuit. Fires had been lighted with
broken gun carriages and shattered artillery wagons, and parties with
torches were collecting the wounded. Ralph found that his head was
being supported, and that a hand was pouring spirits and water down
his throat. The hand was a shaky one, and its owner was crying loudly.
As he opened his eyes the man broke into a torrent of thankful
exclamations.
"The Lord be praised, Mr. Conway. Sure, I thought you were dead and
kilt entirely."
"Is that you, Denis?"
"Sure and it's no one else, your honor."
"Is the battle over?"
"It is that. The French are miles away, and the Proosians at their
heels."
"What has happened to me, Denis?"
"Well, your honor's hurt a bit in the arm, but it will all come right
presently."
It was well for Ralph that he had been struck before the order came
for the advance, for as he fell the one surviving surgeon of the
regiment had at once attended to him, had fixed a tourniquet on the
stump of his arm, tied the arteries, and roughly bandaged it. Had he
not been instantly seen to he would have bled to death in a few
minutes.
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