The dying were calling for water, and the very
soldiers who had shot them, were holding cups to their quivering lips,
though themselves parched with thirst. But water could not save the lives
of the fallen nobles: one by one they ceased to cry out, and soon--all
were silent--and all were still. The VICTORY was WON! But how awful had
been the last scene! How cruelly, how unjustly, had the lives of that
princely assembly been cut short!
The conquerors returned that evening to their camp. On their way, they
passed through the desolate streets of the city; the mud cottages on each
side were empty, and blood flowed between. The young officer, as he
marched at the head of his company, was struck by seeing a row of his own
fellow-soldiers lying dead upon the ground. They had been placed there
ready for burial on the morrow. Their ghastly faces, and gaping wounds
were terrible to behold. The youth remembered them full of life and
spirits in the morning, unmindful of their dismal end; _then_ he felt how
merciful God had been in sparing his life; and when he crept into his
little tent that night, he returned him thanks upon his knees; though he
did not love him _then_ as his Saviour from eternal death. Wearied, he
soon fell asleep, but his sleep was broken by dreadful dreams of blood
and death.
The next day he walked through the conquered town, and saw the British
soldiers dragging the dead bodies of their enemies by ropes fastened to
their feet.
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