Caroline robbed
every bough on her cherry tree to refresh me. Fine cherries they
were--the only ones, probably, in the whole country. But the enemy did
not give me time to eat them; I was obliged to depart in a hurry.
Caroline insisted, with the kindest hospitality, that I should take them
with me, but that was no easy matter: my horse had been shot under me
the day before. I took from my knapsack whatever articles I could in a
hurry, and, thrusting them into my pockets, I fought on foot until a
hussar gave me his horse. All that I was worth was in my pockets, so
that to make room for the cherries I was obliged to take the pocket-book
out of my pocket and place it here beneath my vest. The enemy, who had
been driven back, made a feint of advancing on us, and I led down my
hussars in gallant style. But suddenly we found ourselves in front of a
body of infantry concealed behind a hedge. One of them fired at me, and
the fellow had taken good aim, for the ball struck me here on the
breast. But it rebounded from the pocket-book; otherwise, I should have
been shot through the body and fallen dead on the spot. Tell me," said
he, in a tone of deep emotion; "was not that little child an instrument
in the hand of God to save me from death? Am I right or not when I give
Caroline the credit, under God, of having saved my life? Her must I
thank that my Amelia is not a widow and my daughters orphans."
All agreed with him. His wife, who had Caroline's hand locked in her own
during the whole narrative, now pressed it affectionately and with tears
in her eyes.
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