er. The lust of gain did not stop with
the spoil of the dead, but the wounded were often found stripped of
everything, and in some cases the traces of fierce struggle, and the
wounds of knives and hatchets, showed that murder had consummated the
iniquity of these wretches.

In part from motives of pure humanity, in part from feelings of a more
interested nature--for the terror to what this demoralisation would
tend was now great and widespread--the nobles and gentry of the land
instituted a species of society to reward those who might succour the
wounded, and who displayed any remarkable zest in their care for the
sufferers after a battle. This generous philanthropy was irrespective of
country, and extended its benevolence to the soldiers of either army. Of
course, personal feeling enjoyed all its liberty of preference, but
it is fair to say that the cases were few where the wounded man could
detect the political leanings of his benefactor.

The immense granaries, so universal in the Low Countries, were usually
fitted up as hospitals, and many rooms of the chateau itself were often
devoted to the same purpose, the various individuals of the household,
from the 'seigneur' to the lowest menial, assuming some office in
the great work of charity. And it was a curious thing to see how the
luxurious indolence of chateau life became converted into the zealous
activity of useful benevolence; and not less curious to the moralist to
observe how the emergent pressure of great crime so instinctively, as it
were, suggested this display of virtuous humanity.

It was a little before daybreak that a small cart drawn by a mule drew
up beside the spot where the wounded dragoon sat, with his shattered
arm bound up in his sash, calmly waiting for the death that his sinking
strength told could not be far distant. As the peasant approached him,
he grasped his sabre in the left hand, resolved on making a last and
bold resistance; but the courteous salutation, and the kindly look of
the honest countryman, soon showed that he was come on no errand of
plunder, while, in the few words of bad French he could muster, he
explained his purpose.

'No, no, my kind friend,' said the officer, 'your labour would only be
lost on me. It is nearly all over already! A little farther on in the
field, yonder, where that copse stands, you'll find some poor fellow or
other better worth your care, and more like to benefit by it. Adieu!'

But neither the farew