led out to me, in half a dozen dialects, to make no utter
fool of myself; for the great guns were come, and the fight was over;
all the rest was slaughter.

"Arl oop wi Moonmo," shouted one big fellow, a miner of the Mendip
hills, whose weapon was a pickaxe: "na oose to vaight na moor. Wend thee
hame, yoong mon agin."

Upon this I stopped my horse, desiring not to be shot for nothing; and
eager to aid some poor sick people, who tried to lift their arms to
me. And this I did to the best of my power, though void of skill in
the business; and more inclined to weep with them than to check their
weeping. While I was giving a drop of cordial from my flask to one poor
fellow, who sat up, while his life was ebbing, and with slow insistence
urged me, when his broken voice would come, to tell his wife (whose name
I knew not) something about an apple-tree, and a golden guinea stored in
it, to divide among six children--in the midst of this I felt warm lips
laid against my cheek quite softly, and then a little push; and behold
it was a horse leaning over me! I arose in haste, and there stood
Winnie, looking at me with beseeching eyes, enough to melt a heart of
stone. Then seeing my attention fixed she turned her head, and glanced
back sadly toward the place of battle, and gave a little wistful neigh:
and then looked me full in the face again, as much as to say, "Do you
understand?" while she scraped with one hoof impatiently. If ever a
horse tried hard to speak, it was Winnie at that moment. I went to her
side and patted her; but that was not what she wanted. Then I offered to
leap into the empty saddle; but neither did that seem good to her: for
she ran away toward the part of the field at which she had been glancing
back, and then turned round, and shook her mane, entreating me to follow
her.

Upon this I learned from the dying man where to find his apple-tree, and
promised to add another guinea to the one in store for his children; and
so, commending him to God, I mounted my own horse again, and to Winnie's
great delight, professed myself at her service. With her ringing silvery
neigh, such as no other horse of all I ever knew could equal, she at
once proclaimed her triumph, and told her master (or meant to tell, if
death should not have closed his ears) that she was coming to his aid,
and bringing one who might be trusted, of the higher race that kill.

A cannon-bullet (fired low, and ploughing the marsh slowly) met poor
Wi