“The sergeant-major’s?  Very good.  But if he took the colour he must know what happened to Anastasius.  Call him, will you?”

Sergeant-major McKay came up and saluted.

“Mr. Wilders, sir,” he told the general, “was wounded as we were breasting the slope.”

“You saw him go down?  Where was he hit?”

“I hadn’t time to wait, sir.”

“I should think not,” interrupted Colonel Blythe; “but for him, general, we should never have carried the battery.  I was dismounted, the men were checked, and just at the right moment the sergeant-major led them on.”

“Bravely done, my lad!  You shall hear of this again; I will make a special report to the commander of the forces.  But there, that will keep.  We must see after this poor boy.”

“I was just sending off a party for the purpose,” said the colonel.

“That’s right.  You have some idea, I suppose”—­this was to McKay—­“of the place where Mr. Wilders fell?”

“Certainly, sir.  I think I can easily find it.”

“Very well; show us the way.  And you, Powys”—­this was to the aide-de-camp—­“ride over to the Royal Lancers and tell Hugo Wilders what has happened.”

Then the little band of Good Samaritans set out upon its painful mission.  The autumn evening was already closing in; the night air blew chill across the desolate plain; already numbers of men were busy amongst the wounded, assuaging their thirst from water-bottles, covering the prostrate forms with blankets, and lending the surgeons a helping hand.

Half an hour brought the searchers of the Royal Picts to where young Anastasius Wilders lay.  McKay was the first to find him, and he raised a shout of recognition as he ran forward to the wounded officer.  Unslinging his water-bottle, he put it to his cousin’s lips; but young Wilders waved the precious liquid aside, saying, although in a feeble voice—­

“Thank you; but I can wait.  Give it to that poor chap over there; he is far worse hit than I am.”

It was a private of the regiment, whose breast a bullet had pierced, and whose tortures seemed terrible.

But now the rest of the party came up.  General Wilders dismounted, flask in hand, and the wounded lad was rewarded for his self-denial.

A surgeon, too, had arrived, and he was anxiously questioned as to the nature of young Wilders’s wound.

The right leg had been shattered below the knee by a round shot; the wound had bled profusely, but the poor lad managed to stanch it with his shirt.

“Can you save it?” whispered the general.

“Impossible!” replied the surgeon, in the same tone.

“We must amputate above the knee at once,” and he turned up his sleeves and gave instructions to an assistant to get ready the instruments.

The operation, performed without chloroform, and borne with heroic fortitude, was over when Hugo Wilders rode up to the spot.  Anastasius recognised his brother, and answered his anxious, sorrowful greeting with a faint smile.