"My field-marshal," said the king, interrupting him. "And well have you deserved this promotion; you have assisted me in this battle as I have never before been assisted." He grasped the prince's hand and pressed it tenderly, and there were tears of emotion not only in the eyes of the new field-marshal, but also in those of the king.
A fearful day's work was finished--how fearful, could be seen by the wounded, the dying lying pell-mell upon the battle-field amidst the dead, too exhausted to move. But the day had passed. The cries and shouts of the flying enemy had now ceased--the victory, the battle- field, belonged to the Prussians. What was now most needed by them was an hour's rest. Above the bloody battle-field, above the dying, the sleeping, the groaning, the sighing, now rose the moon grandly, solemnly, as if to console the dead and to lead the living to raise their grateful prayers to heaven. And grateful praise ascended above that night--thanks for the preservation of their own and their friends' lives--thanks for their hero's victory. Side by side, whispering in low tones, lay the soldiers--for the hour seemed to all too solemn to be broken by any loud sound.
No hearts were so full of gratitude and joy as those of Charles Henry Buschman and Fritz Kober. In the pressure of the battle they had been separated and had not again met during the engagement. In vain they had sought and called upon one another, and each one thought of the fearful possibility that the other had fallen. At last they stumbled upon each other. With shouts of joy they rushed into each other's arms.
"You are not wounded, Fritz Kober?" said Charles Henry, with a beating heart.
"I am unharmed; but you, my friend?"
"Only a little cut in the hand, nothing more. How many prisoners did you take?"
"You will be promoted! You will be an officer!"
"Not unless you are also. How many prisoners did you take?"