room, they found a soldier soaked in blood lying on a rough mat,
and another soldier apparently attending on him with the utmost care.

"Who are you?" said one of the surgeons to the sufferer. "I don't think
you belong to our French troops."

"Help!" cried the soldier, "only help me! and may God bless you for it!"

"From the colour of that tunic," remarked the other surgeon, "I should
wager the rascal belongs to some Spanish gentleman. By what blunder was
he brought here?"

"For pity's sake!" murmured the poor fellow, "I am in such pain."

"Die, wretch!" responded the last speaker, pushing him with his foot.
"Die, like the dog you are!"

But this brutality, answered as it was by an agonised groan, disgusted
the other surgeon.

"After all, he is a man, and a wounded man who implores help. Leave him
to me, Rene."

Rene went out grumbling, and the one who remained proceeded to examine
the wound. A terrible arquebus-shot had passed through the leg,
shattering the bone: amputation was absolutely necessary.

Before proceeding to the operation, the surgeon turned to the other
soldier, who had retired into the darkest corner of the room.

"And you, who may you be?" he asked.

The man replied by coming forward into the light: no other answer was
needed. He resembled his companion so closely that no one could doubt
they were brothers-twin brothers, probably. Both were above middle
height; both had olive-brown complexions, black eyes, hooked noses,
pointed chins, a slightly projecting lower lip; both were
round-shouldered, though this defect did not amount to disfigurement: the
whole personality suggested strength, and was not destitute of masculine
beauty. So strong a likeness is hardly ever seen; even their ages
appeared to agree, for one would not have supposed either to be more than
thirty-two; and the only difference noticeable, besides the pale
countenance of the wounded man, was that he was thin as compared with the
moderate fleshiness of the other, also that he had a large scar over the
right eyebrow.

"Look well after your brother's soul," said the surgeon to the soldier,
who remained standing; "if it is in no better case than his body, it is
much to be pitied."

"Is there no hope?" inquired the Sosia of the wounded man.

"The wound is too large and too deep," replied the man of science, "to be
cauterised with boiling oil, according to the ancient method. 'Delenda
est causa mali,' the source of evi