The Child of Waterloo, or, The Horrors of the Battle-Field — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE CHILD OF WATERLOO. 9 ‘Anda nice kettle of fish I’ve made of it, Frenchy,” said Rafferty. ‘‘ Parley vous, Frenchy. Keep up your spirits.” ** Who is that ?” ‘‘ An honest friend of mine,” said the ensign. — ‘‘Thank your honor. I’m as honest as most folks, I shouldn’t wonder.” | ‘*You are both badly wounded,” said the French officer. ‘‘When they pick you up, say you know Rouselli, of the garde cheval. In the French lines the name is not unknown and not unrespected.” ‘¢The French lines!” said Rafferty. ‘‘ I wonder where there’s any French lines now.” ‘* The emperor has won the day.” ‘‘T presume,” said the ensign, ‘‘ that you were wounded be- fore the fate of the day was virtually decided. The English are the victors.” . ‘‘God—God! then al) is lostt Oh, my Marie—my beautiful— where are you? It is very dark—very dark—I am dying— where can I find you? Oh, the agony to move—the dreadful agony to move! Horror —horrot—horrorl She is dead!” ‘‘T am here, close at hand to you,” said the ensign. ‘‘I can- not move, though. Of whom do you speak ?” **The horse has killed her! The horse—the horse! Oh, to come by such a death as this! but we shall meet again—we shal] meet again. Soon—soon—yes, soon. Now—now—hush—hush, little one, hush! Are you dead, too—are you dead, too?” ‘‘It strikes me, sir,” said Rafferty, ‘‘ that the poor Frenchy, sir, ain’t in his right mind and senses, Any one would think he was nursing a baby, sir.” Even as the sergeant spoke, the low, half-smothered cry of an infant came upon their ears. ‘*Hush—hush!” said the ensign. ‘‘Can it be possible that there is a child here ?” Suddenly he felt something touch him, and, as well as he could, he raised himself a little, when he found that the wound- ed French officer had dragged his mangled form close to bim, and was looking in his face with an expression of intense suffer- ing and anxiety. The effort which the wounded man had made to get so far, al- though the distance was nothing, must, in his condition, have been terrific. He had drawn himself along by ove arm, and held tightly to his breast with the other, was as astounding and unlikely an object to see on that field of carnage, as could well be imagined. It was a young child, dabbled in blood—soaked _ the red stream which had flowed from the wounds of the officer. : While the young ensign, faint and exhausted as he was, man- aged to see so much, with pain and difficulty the French officer spoke; but although we may give his words, we cannot point to the reader the wild energy with which he spoke, nor the deep, thetic tones in which he implored the ensign to grant him the n he sought. ‘You are my foe,” he said. ‘‘My hand may have stricken comicbooks. com