Neither
Charles nor Henry knew what was before them in their march to Vesuvius.
To surround and capture a few runaways was perhaps the most they
expected; and Henry, in the confiding affection of her heart, clung
to Charles, determined to bear fatigue and hardship rather than be
separated from her.
It must be a painful picture that fancy will paint of the last hour
of this lovely child. The anguish of her heart must have been keener
than the deep wound that sent the life-streams to mingle with the lava
of the mountain: no one to minister a drop of water to her parched
lips; no friendly voice to console her; the moans and imprecations of
the wounded brigands grating on her ears; the thought that her sister,
too, was perhaps lying in pain, and sinking from her wounds; and, above
all--that which, perhaps, sent the last blush to her cheek--the fear
of the discovery of her sex, and the rough gaze of a brutal soldiery.
But Heaven's sympathizing spirits were gathered around this child of
misfortune, and doubtless with her last sigh he breathed her pure
soul into their hands, and the last wish was answered--for she was
good and innocent before God.
When the sun had fully risen, Charles was approached by a sergeant
of the troops, who announced to her that the captain had died during
the night from his wounds, and, as she was the senior officer, they
waited her orders. Dissembling her grief, Charles rose to her feet
and gave directions that the bodies of the captain and her brother
should be buried in their clothes and wrapped in the flag of the
country.
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