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"On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head,

lay a handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at

the most. He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand

clenched on his breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight

upward. I could not see where his wound was, as I kneeled on one

knee over him; but, I could see that he was dying of a wound from

a sharp point.

"'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'

"'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'

"It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand

away. The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to

twenty-four hours before, but no skill could have saved him if it

had been looked to without delay. He was then dying fast. As I

turned my eyes to the elder brother, I saw him looking down at

this handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if he were a

wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were a

fellow-creature.