The excitement of the battle was over; and leaning on his sword, Reginald still bent over the noble form and marble features of the young warrior at his feet; and he sighed deeply when he thought how suddenly had this flower of manly beauty been cut down. “Perhaps,” said he, half aloud, “some now childless mother yet waits for this last prop of her age and name; or some betrothed lingers at her window, and wonders why he so long delays.” Ethelston was at his side, his eyes also bent sadly upon the same object: the young friends interchanged a warm and silent grasp of the hand, each feeling that he read the heart of the other! At this moment, a groan escaped from a wounded man, who was half buried under the bleeding bodies of his comrades: with some difficulty Reginald dragged him out from below them, and the poor fellow thanked him for his humanity: he had only received a slight wound on the head from a spent ball, which had stunned him for the time; but he soon recovered from its effects, and looking around, he saw the body of the young commander stretched on the plain. “_Ah, mon pauvre Général!_” he exclaimed: and on further inquiry, Reginald learnt that it was indeed the gallant, the admired, the beloved General Marceau, whose brilliant career was thus untimely closed. “I will go,” whispered Ethelston, “and bear these tidings to the Archduke; meantime, Reginald, guard the honoured remains from the camp–spoiler and the plunderer.” So saying he withdrew: and Reginald, stooping over the prostrate form before him, stretched it decently, closed the eyes, and, throwing a mantle over the splendid uniform, sat down to indulge in the serious meditations inspired by the scene. He was soon aroused from them by the poor fellow whom he had dragged forth, who said to him, “Sir, I yield myself your prisoner.” “And who are you, my friend?” “I was courier, valet, and cook to M. de Vareuil, aide–de–camp to the General Marceau; both lie dead together before you.” “And what is your name, my good fellow?” “Gustave Adolphe Montmorenci Perrot.” “A fair string of names, indeed,” said Reginald, smiling. “But pray, Monsieur Perrot, how came you here? are you a soldier as well as a courier?” “Monsieur does me too much honour,” said the other, shrugging his shoulders. “I only came from the baggage–train with a message to my master, and your avant–garde peppered us so hotly that I could not get back again. I am not fond of fighting: but somehow, when I saw poor Monsieur de Vareuil in so sad a plight, I did not wish to leave him.” Reginald looked at the speaker, and thought he had never seen in one face such a compound of slyness and honesty, drollery and sadness. He did not, however, reply, and relapsed into his meditation. Before five minutes had passed, Monsieur Perrot, as if struck by a sudden idea, fell on his knees before Reginald, and said, “Monsieur has saved my life—will he grant me yet one favour?”