There was a silence for a few seconds; when the dying man lifted his failing eyes upwards, and turned them slowly around on the group. A slight tremor shook his lips, as if with an effort to speak; but no sound issued. Yet in the terrible eagerness of his features might be seen the working of a spirit fiercely struggling for utterance. “Yes, my poor fellow,” said the officer, stooping down beside him, and taking his hand. “I was asking for your name.” A faint smile and a slight nod of the head seemed to acknowledge the speech. “He is speaking,--hush! I hear his voice,” cried the officer. An almost inaudible murmur moved his lips; then a shivering shook his frame, and his head fell heavily back. “What is this?” said the officer.. “Death,” said the surgeon, with the solemn calm of one habituated to such scenes. “His last words were strange-, did you hear them?” “I thought he said 'Court-martial.'” The surgeon nodded, and turned to move away. “See here, sir,” said a sergeant, as opening the dead man's coat he drew forth a white handkerchief, “the poor fellow was evidently trying to write his name with his own blood; here are some letters clear enough. L-e-o, and this is an n--or m--” “I know him now,” cried another. “This was the Volunteer who joined us at Malta; but Colonel Darcy got him exchanged into his own corps. His name was Leonard.” CHAPTER XXVII. THE FRENCH RETREAT Let us now turn to the Knight of Gwynne, who, wounded and bleeding, was carried along in the torrent of the retreat. Poor fellow, he had witnessed the total slaughter or capture of the gallant band he had so bravely led into action but a few hours before, and now, with one arm powerless, and a sabre-cut in the side, could barely keep up with the hurried steps of the flying army. From the few survivors among his followers, not one of whom was unwounded, he received every proof of affectionate devotion. If they were proud of the gallant old officer as their leader, they actually loved him like a father. The very last incident of their struggle was an effort to cut through the closing ranks of the French, and secure his escape; and although one of the Volunteers almost lifted him into the saddle, from which he had torn the rider, Darcy would not leave his comrades, but cried out, “What signifies a prisoner more or less, lads? The victory is ours; let that console us.” The brave fellow who had perilled his life for his leader was cut down at the same instant. Darcy saw him bleeding and disarmed, and had but time to throw him his last pistol, when he was driven onward, and, in the mingled confusion of the movement, beheld him no more.