The gallant leader appeared to be as cool and composed as if he were
at breakfast; with his drawn sword he pointed to the breach, and
we heard him exclaim, "_Suivez moi!_" I felt jealous of this brave
fellow--jealous of his being a Frenchman; and I threw a lighted
hand-grenade between his feet--he picked it up, and threw it from him
to a considerable distance.
"Cool chap enough that," said the captain, who stood close to me;
"I'll give him another;" which he did, but this the officer kicked
away with equal _sang froid_ and dignity. "Nothing will cure that
fellow," resumed the captain, "but an ounce of lead on an empty
stomach--it's a pity, too, to kill so fine a fellow--but there is no
help for it."
So saying, he took a musket out of my hand, which I had just
loaded--aimed, fired--the colonel staggered, clapped his hand to his
breast, and fell back into the arms of some of his men, who threw down
their muskets, and took him on their shoulders, either unconscious or
perfectly regardless of the death-work which was going on around them.
The firing redoubled from our musketry on this little group, every
man of whom was either killed or wounded. The colonel, again left to
himself, tottered a few paces further, till he reached a small bush,
not ten yards from the spot where he received his mortal wound. Here
he fell; his sword, which he still grasped in his right hand, rested
on the boughs, and pointed upwards to the sky, as if directing the
road to the spirit of its gallant master.
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