"What are you doing here?" he asked him, brusquely.

"I am this poor officer's friend," Amedee replied, pointing to Maurice.

"So be it! stay with him--if he asks for a drink you have the tea there
upon the stove. You, gentlemen," added he, addressing the brothers, who
arose after making the sign of the cross, "you will return to the battle-
field, I suppose?"

They silently bowed their heads, the eldest of them closed the dead man's
eyes. As they were all going out together, the assistant surgeon said to
them, in a petulant tone of voice:

"Try to bring me some not quite so much used up."

Maurice Roger was about to die, too. His shirt was stained with blood,
and a stream ran down from his forehead upon his blond moustache, but he
was still beautiful in his marble-like pallor. Amedee carefully raised
up one of the wounded man's arms and placed it upon the stretcher,
keeping his friend's hand in his own. Maurice moved slightly at the
touch, and ended by opening his eyes.

"Ah, how thirsty I am!" he groaned.

Amedee went to the stove and got the pot of tea, and leaned over to help
the unfortunate man drink it. Maurice looked at him with surprise. He
recognized Amedee.

"You, Amedee!--where am I, then?"