The drummer-boy shook his head.
“But you,” said the captain, observing him attentively, “must have lost a great deal of blood to be as weak as this.”
“Lost blood!” replied the boy, with a smile. “Something else besides blood. Look!” He drew aside the coverlet.
The captain started back in horror.
The lad had but one leg. His left leg had been cut off above the knee; the stump was wrapped in bloodstained cloths.
At that moment a small, fat, military surgeon passed, in his shirt-sleeves. “Ah, captain,” he said, rapidly, nodding towards the drummer, “this is a sad case; there is a leg that might have been saved if he had not exerted himself in such a crazy manner—that cursed inflammation! It had to be cut off away up here. Oh, but he's a brave lad, I can assure you! He never shed a tear, nor uttered a cry! He was proud of being an Italian boy, while I was performing the operation, upon my word of honor. He comes of a good race, by Heavens!” And away he went, on a run.
The captain wrinkled his heavy, white brows, gazed fixedly at the drummer-boy, and spread the coverlet over him again, and slowly, almost unconsciously, and still gazing intently at him, he raised his hand to his head, and lifted his cap.
“Signor Captain!” exclaimed the boy in amazement. “What are you doing, Signor Captain? To me!”
And then that rough soldier, who had never before
