[_He looks at him, and moves away a little._]

This dying soldier frightens me.

Yet 'tis not strange a dying grenadier Should fall asleep upon this field of glory.

The field is well acquainted with his likes.

[_He bends over him and cries._]

Yes! Victory! The soldiers toss their shakos!

FLAMBEAU.

[_In his death-rattle._]

I thirst--!

DISTANT VOICES.

I thirst!--I thirst!

THE DUKE.

[_Shuddering._]

What are those echoes?

A VOICE.

I thirst--!

THE DUKE.

O G.o.d!

THE SAME VOICES.

[_Very distant._]

I die--I die!

THE DUKE.

[_With horror._]

His voice Reverberates beneath the lurid sky.

THE VOICES.

I die--!

THE DUKE.

I understand! His cries of death Are, for this vale which knows them all by heart, As the first measures of a well-known song.

The plain takes up the moaning death has hushed.

THE PLAIN.

Ah--! Ah--!

THE DUKE.

I understand! complaints and sobs!-- 'Tis Wagram's field, remembering aloud!

THE PLAIN.

Ah--! Ah--!

THE DUKE.

[_Looking at_ FLAMBEAU.]

How still he lies!--I must begone!

For 'tis as if he'd fallen in the battle!

[_And bending over him he murmurs._]

Thus and no otherwise they must have looked!

The uniform--the blood--!

[_He is about to go, but suddenly, with horror._]

Another! There!

There--! Everywhere--! The same accusing shapes!

They're dying thus as far as eye can reach!

THE PLAIN.

Alas--!

THE DUKE.

I hear them speaking in the gloom!

VOICES.

My brow bleeds--! My leg is dead--! My arm hangs loose!-- I'm crushed beneath this gun!

THE DUKE.