handed my message to Wattrelot:

"Take this to the Colonel, and quickly. I will wait here for the
brigade."

I then rode slowly to the corner of the wood, where Madelaine and
Lemaître were posted, whilst Wattrelot went off at a trot across the
stubble. But a sad sight was awaiting me.

Lemaître was standing in great grief over poor "Ramier," lying inert
on the ground and struggling feebly with death. His eyes were already
dull and his legs convulsed. Every now and then he shuddered
violently.

I looked at Lemaître, who felt as if he were losing his best friend.
And, indeed, is not our horse our best friend when we are
campaigning--the friend that serves us well to the very last, that
saves us time and again from death, and carries us until he can carry
us no longer? I dismounted and threw the reins to Lemaître:

"Don't grieve, my good fellow; it is a fine end for your 'Ramier.' He
might, like so many others, have died worn out with work or suffering
under some hedgerow. He has a soldier's death. All we can do is to cut
short his sufferings and send him quickly to rejoin his many good
comrades in the paradise of noble animals. For they have their
paradise, I am sure."

But Lemaître hardly seemed convinced. He shook his head sadly, and
said: