The Child of Waterloo, or, The Horrors of the Battle-Field — page 301: what you’re looking at

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

298 THE CHILD OF WATERLOO. I saw the officer turn pale as he saw the youth fall, and he turned his head, saying: ‘* May you die the death of a felon, dastard as you are! You cannot hurt me now; I wish to die.” ‘You shall have your wish,” said I, as I thrust the point of my sword through the body of the wounded man, who died cursing me; but I laughed, and left the spot. Many more Frenchmen fell beneath my sword; none could stand against me in single fight, and few ever escaped from me when in the front of battle. I was ever victorious. Marie Rouselli! What is there in a name that causes so many emotions to arise in my brain? Why should I feel all the glow of anger and revenge? Why should I feel all the horror of a bursting but steeled heart? Away—away with such beginnings of a train of reflections, that. even I cannot bear with calmness, me without madness. he has come to a sad end. It might have been otherwise; but she could not be turned from her purpose; she could not avoid the consequences, I have seen many ends, many lives lost, and have taken hundreds; yet I cannot pass by this one as I would some others. I cannot but remember that time was when even I was not what a I am, however, what I shall ever be to the end of my ife. Marie Rouselli went mad; yes, raving mad. She knew no- body, and nobody would befriend her. The loss of her child preyed so deeply on her mind, that, resolved to find it, she began to wander about in all the most unheard-of places that could be imagined, and her life was continually in danger. She was taken to a mad-house. She died in Berlin; carefully tended, certainly, but under restraint; and yet she could not have been conscious of the fact, for she seemed to have no desire to leave the place. She was not violently mad. ‘*My child—my child!” was the cry all day Jong—in her dreams by night—until she became exhausted, and nature, un- able to bear up, sank beneath affliction so deep and so con- tinuous. She remained there some years. She was always known by the name of the mad mother, and many used to wonder who she was; but I knew who she was and her family, and others would have given something to know it. But no matter, so long as I can inflict vengeance upon Frenchmen, it is all I care to do, Her race is run; her pilgrimage is o’er, and she has become a mass of corruption. e is most truly no more. My days of vengeance are not complete—the time is not yet run out; but should these wars continue, many a hundred Frenchmen will fall beneath my hand. Their fate will be bad; but Marie Rouselli’s fate has been worse than any. To die in a mad-house is a fearful end—even I—I should shrink from that. My days of vengeance will come round; there is no battle in which I do not take a part, or in which I do not attempt to be- come a volunteer, if 1 cannot obtain a post with any command; comicbooks. com