It was an awful wound. Almost the whole left shoulder was carried away; the arm was all but separated from the body; the ribs over that intrepid heart were broken; the flesh and muscles were fearfully torn and mangled. Hardinge made an attempt with his sash to check the rush of blood; but with so extensive an injury little could be done. Sir John was then gently lifted upon a blanket, and all the while he still intently watched the struggle, as if his own state were a matter of very secondary importance. For a moment his attention was recalled from the front. His sword became entangled, as the soldiers moved him, and the hilt went into the wound. Captain Hardinge began to unbuckle it, but he was at once checked, Moore saying in his usual voice, with calm distinctness— “It is as well as it is. I had rather it should go out of the field with me.” So extraordinary was his composure that Hardinge began to hope, even against hope, that the wound might after all prove not to be mortal, that the General might even yet be spared to his country. He faltered something of the kind, and Moore turned from gazing at the battle, to inspect gravely his own injuries. “No, Hardinge, I feel that to be impossible,” he replied. “You need not go with me. Report to General Hope that I am wounded and carried to the rear.” He was slowly borne towards Coruña, a sergeant and ten soldiers of the Guards and the 42nd being told off for this service. Hardinge’s sash was arranged so as to give him support. Two surgeons came hastening to meet him. They had been engaged with the arm of his next in command, Sir David Baird, which was badly shattered, but on hearing what had happened to his Chief, Baird hurried them off, and they left his arm half-dressed. Moore, who was losing blood rapidly, observed— “You can be of no service to me. Go to the wounded soldiers. You may be of use to them.” But this unselfish order could not be obeyed. Again and again in their sad progress he desired a halt, that he might watch what was going on, and might listen to the fainter sound of the enemy’s musketry, as the French were driven back. Presently they were overtaken by a spring waggon containing a wounded officer, Colonel Wynch, who asked, “Who was in the blanket?” On hearing that it was General Moore, he suggested his removal to the waggon. Moore did not refuse, but he looked at one of the Highlanders and asked his opinion—would the waggon or the blanket be best? The man advised the latter. “It will not shake you so much, sir,” he said; “and we can keep step, and carry you more easy.” “I think so, too,” Sir John quietly said, and they went on their way as before. By this time the hardy Highlanders and Guardsmen who carried him were one and all in tears.