Hungry as we were, the hearts of the soldiers were moved at the scene, and our next day’s provision was cheerfully contributed to rescue them from death. But this kindness could only delay their fate. They were too weak to seek for more food; they had scarcely strength to eat the little we could offer them; and it is more than probable that every one perished. The next day my comrade, who had been fast failing, declared himself unable to proceed. He was a fine fellow,--one that I had known in Ireland, and to whom I was much attached. Feeble as we were, we could not leave him behind, and we carried him a short distance; but he soon died. Permission was given us to carry him a little way from the camp to bury him. We hollowed out a shallow grave, wrapped him in his blanket, and left him to his fate. Near the spot where we interred him was a small house, which we entered, and were fortunate enough to obtain a little wine. While in the house, we heard a scream, as of fear. We hastened out, and saw several of our soldiers running swiftly towards the camp, from the place where we had interred our comrade. They had dug him up, for the purpose of robbing him of his blanket. As they were ripping it open, the knife entered the flesh, and he began to struggle. It was this that had so frightened them. We went to the poor fellow, finished removing his blanket, and found that he was still alive. Want and fatigue had produced a state of insensibility resembling death, from which he had been aroused by the pain of his wound. We shared with him the little wine we had obtained, which so revived him that he was able to accompany us back from his own funeral. He soon after recovered, and returned home to Ireland.