For five miles I rode south, striking a tinder from time to time
to look at my pocket compass. And then in an instant-- I feel
the pang once more as my memory brings back the moment--my horse,
without a sob or staggers fell stone-dead beneath me!
I had never known it, but one of the bullets from that infernal
picket had passed through his body. The gallant creature had
never winced nor weakened, but had gone while life was in him.
One instant I was secure on the swiftest, most graceful horse in
Massena's army. The next he lay upon his side, worth only the
price of his hide, and I stood there that most helpless, most
ungainly of creatures, a dismounted Hussar. What could I do with
my boots, my spurs, my trailing sabre? I was far inside the
enemy's lines. How could I hope to get back again?
I am not ashamed to say that I, Etienne Gerard, sat upon my dead
horse and sank my face in my hands in my despair.
Already the first streaks were whitening the east.
In half an hour it would be light. That I should have won my way
past every obstacle and then at this last instant be left at the
mercy of my enemies, my mission ruined, and myself a
prisoner--was it not enough to break a soldier's heart?
But courage, my friends! We have these moments of weakness, the
bravest of us; but I have a spirit like a slip of steel, for the
more you bend it the higher it springs.
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