were drawn close to his side, as if to protect the weapons
which it had always been his pride to keep bright and clean. He was a
fresh handsome lad, with courage and loveableness equally stamped upon
his young brow. He opened his eyes languidly as the doctor attended to
him.

"Come, my fine fellow, keep up your heart," said the doctor tenderly;
"you will perhaps--that is to say, the ambulance-wagons will be round
immediately, and--"

"Thank you," interrupted the trooper quietly, "God's blessing rest upon
you. I know what you mean.--Look, sir."

He tried to take a locket from his neck as he spoke, but could not. The
doctor gently assisted him. "See," he said, "take this to Dobri
Petroff--the scout. You know him? Every one knows dashing Dobri!"

"I know him. Well?"

"Tell him to give it to her--he knows who--and--and--say it has kept me
in--in heaven when sometimes it seemed to me as if I had got into hell."

"From whom?" asked the doctor, anxiously, as the youth's head sank
forward, and the terrible pallor of approaching death came on.

"From Andre--"

Alas! alas for Maria with the auburn hair!

The doctor rose. His services were no longer needed. Mounting his
horse, he rode away.

The ground over which he galloped was strewn with weapons. The formal
surrender had been made, and each Turk, obeying literally the order to
lay down his arms, had deposited his rifle in the mud where he stood.

That night a faint light shone through the murky clouds, and dimly
illumined the grim battle-field.

It was deserted by all but the dead and dying, with now and then a
passing picket or fatigue-party. As the night advanced, and the cold
became piercing, even these seemed to have finally retired from the
ghastly scene. Towards morning the moon rose high, and, piercing the
clouds, at times lit up the whole battle-field. Ah! there was many a
pale countenance turned wistfully on the moon that night, gazing at it
until the eyes became fixed in death. There was one countenance, which,
deadly white, and gashed by a Turkish sabre, had been ruddy with young
life in the morning. It was that of Nicholas Naranovitsch. He lay on
his back near his dead horse, and close to a heap of slaughtered men.
He was so faint and so shattered by sabre-cuts and bullets as to be
utterly unable to move anything but his eyes. Though almost in a state
of stupor, he retained sufficient consciousness to observe what went on
around him