Prince Ernest raised his fallen foe in his arms, supported him upon his bosom and gazed on his upturned, pallid face in pity and distress. “Quick! you come hither, monsieur! Quick! you come hither, Doctor Dietz!” he called hastily to his own surgeon, who with the two seconds and the valet were hurrying to the spot. “Good Heaven! he is killed!” cried Francis Tredegar, throwing himself down in a kneeling posture beside his friend and relieving Prince Ernest of the weight of the body. Doctor Dietz dropped on his knee on the other side and began hastily to unloosen the clothes and examine the condition of the wounded man. Major Zollenhoffar bent sadly over the group. Simms, the valet, stood gaping and staring in speechless consternation. The impulsive Austrian skipped around the circle, acting in his distress more like an excitable dancing master than an accomplished Prince. Each face was as pale as the bloodless face below them; for these were not the times of war, and the men were not inured to sudden and violent death. At length the surgeon looked up from his examination. “Is he quite dead? Is there not the slightest hope?” anxiously inquired Francis Tredegar. “He is not dead,” said Doctor Dietz. Then turning to Major Zollenhoffar, he requested—“Monsieur, oblige me; send someone to the carriage for my case of instruments.” “I will go myself,” answered the major, hurrying off. “Monsieur, you do the favor; send your servant for the water,” said Doctor Dietz, turning again to Francis. “Hasten, Simms. There is a hut around the projection of that rock. Go there and procure some vessel and fill it at the nearest spring and hurry back with it as fast as possible,” ordered Francis, speaking eagerly while he still supported the almost lifeless form of his friend. Simms ran off at the height of his speed to get the water. And all this while Prince Ernest skipped about giving vent to his lamentations and declaiming in his excitement, without his usually careful regard to the construction of the English language. “My Heaven! I shall wish to kill him not! I know not what he quarrel with me because! what he insult me! what he defy me! what he shoot me because—I know not—I—! A fair woman shall give me her bouquet to hold, to keep, to cherish! Why not? I am the slave of the fair woman! I take her bouquet! It is sweet, it is fresh, it is precious like herself! I press it to my lips! I put it to my heart! Why not? What wrong I do that he shall charge me? shall accuse me? shall shoot me!” he exclaimed, jumping about, gesticulating, and making such havoc of English auxiliary verbs as even the best-read foreigners may sometimes do when speaking rapidly and excitedly. “Lay your friend down flat upon his back—I wish to probe his wound,” said Doctor Dietz to Francis Tredegar, as he saw Major Zollenhoffar running towards them, with his case of instruments.