The troops were indeed terribly fatigued, for they had had a thirty miles’ march, and nearly six hours continuous fighting; but they were in high spirits at their success, although suffering severely from want of water.  They had started in the morning with full canteens, but the dusty march had produced such thirst that most of these were emptied long before they reached the field of battle; and no water was to be found near the spot where the Twenty-eighth were bivouacked, and indeed with the exception of the regiments in the village, who obtained water from the wells, the whole army lay down without a drink.  Water had, however, been fetched for the wounded, whose first cry as their comrades reached them had always been for it; and even when the search had ceased for the night, there were numbers still lying in agony scattered over the field.  Ralph had before starting filled a canteen with brandy and water at the suggestion of Captain O’Connor.

“The less you drink, lad, while on the march the better; but the chances are you will find by night that every drop is worth its weight in gold.  If you have the bad luck to be wounded yourself, the contents of the canteen may save your life; and if you don’t want it yourself, you may be sure that there will be scores of poor fellows to whom a mouthful will be a blessing indeed.”

So Ralph had found it.  He had drunk very sparingly on the way, scarcely permitting himself to do more than to wet his lips; but when he set about the work of collecting the wounded, he felt more than amply rewarded for his little self-sacrifice by the grateful thanks of the poor fellows to whom he was able to give a mouthful of his hoarded store.  It was not until his return to the bivouac, after his hour’s turn of duty, that he learned the extent of the loss of the regiment.  He knew by the smallness of the number who mustered for the search how much his own company had suffered, and in the brief intervals in the struggle he had heard something of what was doing elsewhere.  Lieutenant Desmond had fallen early in the fight, shot through the heart as the light companies went out to oppose the French skirmishers.  Captain O’Connor had received a lance wound through his arm; but had made a sling of his sash, and had kept his place at the head of his company.

The officers were all gathered round a fire when Ralph returned to the bivouac.

“I see you have your arm in a sling, O’Connor,” he said.  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No, I think not; but it’s confoundedly painful.  It was a French lancer did it.  Fortunately one of the men bayoneted him at the very instant he struck me, and it was only the head of the lance that went through my arm.  Still, it made a hole big enough to be uncommonly painful; the more so because it gave it a frightful wrench as the man dropped the lance.  However, there is nothing to grumble at; and I may consider myself lucky indeed to have got off with a flesh wound when so many good fellows have fallen.”