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.
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