Meanwhile the other square had been broken by the charge of the garde du corps. The cavalry had moved forward, and in a short time the scene of all this carnage, of all this noise, was only an empty plain, where piles of corpses lay one on another in lakes of blood--men and horses, friend and foe, mingled together. Fritz Deyke was alone in this scene of horror. He dismounted, led his horse by the bridle, and walked to the place where the dragoons had broken the square. His horse snorted and struggled to run back. He led it a little way off and tied it to the trunk of a tree which grew near the high road; then he again approached the heaps of slain. Some wounded men raised their heads and begged gaspingly for a drop of water. "I cannot help all, but you shall not perish," he said. There was a deep ditch near the high road; it might have water in it. He seized two helmets lying on the ground, and hurried to the ditch. There was actually some water--a little, and dirty, for the continuous heat had sucked up the moisture. With some difficulty he filled the helmets with the muddy, lukewarm fluid, and carrying them like two buckets, he returned to the wounded men, who were watching for him with unspeakable longing. He drew out his flask, poured some of its contents into each helmet, and gave some of the liquid to the sufferers, impartially succouring both Prussians and Hanoverians. "So, be patient," he said, kindly; "the first ambulance I see, I will send to you." And he began to search amongst the dead. They lay heaped on one another, the brave dragoons and the brave Prussian infantry, some with a calm, peaceful expression on their faces, some with a look of wild horror, many so frightfully disfigured with bullets and stabs that the soldier's brave heart quailed, and he had to close his eyes for a moment to gain strength to continue his dreadful employment. But he went on undeterred. He laid the dead bodies aside, and exerting all his strength, he dragged at the dead horses. "Here is Herr von Stolzenberg!" he cried, as he turned over the body of the young officer, which lay with its face on the ground, bathed in blood. "Handsome, brave gentleman! and to die so young! It is all over with him," he said, mournfully. A bullet had carried away part of the skull, and countless stabs still oozed with blood. Fritz Deyke bowed his head over the corpse, folded his hands, and repeated "Our Father." "But here," he then cried, "lies poor Roland, stone dead. Good, faithful creature; and under him, alas! there is my lieutenant!" He pushed the dead horse aside. Beneath lay Lieutenant von Wendenstein, pale and stark, his left hand pressed on his breast, his sword still in his right hand, his eyes wide open, and staring glassily at the sky. "Dead!" said poor Fritz, with a cry of grief; "he is really dead!" and he bent sorrowfully over the body of the fallen officer.