and takes out the
half gulden which Ewald von Kleist had received from the Russian hussar.

Again he lies naked, again the muddy water forces into his wounds, and
adds cruel torture to the agonies of death. So lies he till the next
day, till the enemy takes pity upon him and carries him as a prisoner
to Frankfort. [Footnote: Ewald von Kleist died a few days after this,
on the 24th of August. The Russians gave him an honorable burial; and as
there was no sword upon his coffin, Captain Bulow, chief of the Russian
dragoons, took his own from his side and placed it upon the bier,
saying, "So worthy an officer shall not be buried without every mark of
honor."--Archenholtz, 262.]

Happy those who meet with sudden death. It is true all the living did
not share the cruel fate of Ewald von Kleist, but all those thousands
who were borne wounded and bleeding from the battle-field were conscious
of their sufferings and their defeat.

The little village of Octshef near the battle-field was a hospital.
During the battle all the inhabitants had fled. The wounded had taken
possession of the huts and the surgeons were hastening from house to
house giving relief where it was possible. No one entered into those
two little huts which lay at the other end of the village, somewhat
separated from the others. And yet those huts contained two wounded men.
They had been brought here during the battle--the surgeon had examined
their wounds and gone out silently, never to return. Groaning from time
to time, these two wounded men lay upon the straw, their eyes fixed
upon the door, longing for the surgeon to bring them help, or at least
alleviation.

And now the door was indeed opened, and an officer entered. Was it the
obscurity of twilight, or had blood and pain blinded the eyes of the
wounded men so that, they could not recognize the stranger? It was
true his noble and generally cheerful face was now grave and stern, his
cheeks were ashy pale, and his great, flashing eyes were dim; but
there was still something inexpressibly majestic and commanding in
his appearance--though defeated and cast down, he was still a hero, a
king--Frederick the Great!

Frederick had come to take up his quarters in this lonely hut, to be
alone in his great grief; but when he saw the two wounded men, his
expression changed to one of earnest sympathy. With hasty steps he drew
near to the two officers, bowed over and questioned them kindly. They
recognized his voic