too, dying?... No; he would not die there. The
Mecklenberg started forward at a walk; a spur had touched him.

"No!" Maurice cried, throwing off the drowsiness. "My God, I will not
die here!... Go, boy!" The Mecklenberg set off, loping easily.

His recent enemy, the great white horse, stood motionless in the center
of the road, and followed him with large, inquiring eyes. He turned
and looked at the silent huddled mass in the dust at his feet, and
whinneyed. But he did not move; a foot still remained in the stirrup.

Soon Maurice remembered an episode of his school days, when, in the
spirit of precocious research, he had applied carbolic acid to his arm.
It occurred to him that he was now being bathed in that burning fluid.
He was recovering from the shock. With returning sense came the increase
of pain, pain so tormenting and exquisite that sobs rose in his throat
and choked him. Perspiration matted his hair; every breath he took was
a knife thrust, and the rise and fall of the horse, gentle as it was,
caused the earth to reel and careen heavenward.

Bleiberg; he was to reach Bleiberg. He repeated this thought over and
over. Bleiberg, to warn her. Why should he go to Bleiberg to warn her?
What was he doing here, he who loved life so well? What had led him into
this?... There had been a battle, but neither army had been cognizant
of it. He endeavored to move his injured arm, and found it bereft of
locomotion. The tendons had been cut. And he could not loosen his grip
on the saber which he held in his right hand. The bridle rein swung from
side to side.

Rivulets of fire began to run up and down his side; the cords in his
neck were stiffening. Still the blood went drip, drip, drip, into the
dust. Would he reach Bleiberg, or would he die on the way? God! for a
drink of water, cold water. He set his teeth in his lips to neutralize
the pain in his arm and shoulder. His lips were numb, and the pressure
of his teeth was as nothing. From one moment to the next he expected
to drop from the saddle, but somehow he hung on; the spark of life was
tenacious. The saber dangled on one side, the scabbard on the other. The
blood, drying in places, drew the skin as tight as a drumhead.

On, on, on; up long inclines, down the steeps; he lost all track
of time, and the darkness thickened and the stars stood out more
clearly.... He could look back on a clean life; true, there were some
small stains, but these were human. Strange fanci