In a little village less than a mile from the field of battle were to be heard the groans of the wounded and dying, who had been carried thither from the field of battle. The inhabitants had given up their houses to be used as hospitals, and two or three barber surgeons went hither and thither, hastily ordering operations which they left to their assistants, and driving out fugitives who had contrived to accompany the wounded under pretence of assisting friends or near relations. They had already expelled a good number of these poor fellows, when, opening the door of a small room, they found a soldier soaked in blood lying on a rough mat, and another soldier apparently attending on him with the utmost care. “Who are you?” said one of the surgeons to the sufferer. “I don’t think you belong to our French troops.” “Help!” cried the soldier, “only help me! and may God bless you for it!” “From the colour of that tunic,” remarked the other surgeon, “I should wager the rascal belongs to some Spanish gentleman. By what blunder was he brought here?” “For pity’s sake!” murmured the poor fellow, “I am in such pain.” “Die, wretch!” responded the last speaker, pushing him with his foot. “Die, like the dog you are!” But this brutality, answered as it was by an agonised groan, disgusted the other surgeon. “After all, he is a man, and a wounded man who implores help. Leave him to me, Rene.” Rene went out grumbling, and the one who remained proceeded to examine the wound. A terrible arquebus-shot had passed through the leg, shattering the bone: amputation was absolutely necessary. Before proceeding to the operation, the surgeon turned to the other soldier, who had retired into the darkest corner of the room. “And you, who may you be?” he asked. The man replied by coming forward into the light: no other answer was needed. He resembled his companion so closely that no one could doubt they were brothers-twin brothers, probably. Both were above middle height; both had olive-brown complexions, black eyes, hooked noses, pointed chins, a slightly projecting lower lip; both were round-shouldered, though this defect did not amount to disfigurement: the whole personality suggested strength, and was not destitute of masculine beauty. So strong a likeness is hardly ever seen; even their ages appeared to agree, for one would not have supposed either to be more than thirty-two; and the only difference noticeable, besides the pale countenance of the wounded man, was that he was thin as compared with the moderate fleshiness of the other, also that he had a large scar over the right eyebrow. “Look well after your brother’s soul,” said the surgeon to the soldier, who remained standing; “if it is in no better case than his body, it is much to be pitied.” “Is there no hope?” inquired the Sosia of the wounded man.