DURING the retreat from Moscow a French soldier was mortally wounded.
His comrades tried to lift him into a waggon. ‘No bandages, no brandy!’
he cried; ‘go, you cannot help me.’ They hesitated, but seeing that he
could not recover, and knowing that the enemy was hard upon them in
pursuit, they left him. For half an hour he was alive and alone. The
Emperor, whom he worshipped, was far away; his friends had fled; to
remain would have been folly, and yet! It was late in the afternoon and
bitterly cold. He looked with dim and closing eyes over the vast,
dreary, snowy and silent plain. What were the images which passed before
them? Were they of home, of the Emperor and the retreating army, of the
crucifix and the figure thereon? Who can tell? Death is preceded by
thoughts which life cannot anticipate. Perhaps his herald was a simple
longing to be at rest, joy at his approach blotting out all bitterness
and regret. Who can tell? But I dream and dream; the dying, wintry day,
the dark, heavily-clouded sky, the snow, and the blood. A Cossack came
up and drove his lance through him.