It fell that once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest, this
plebeian champion headed a sudden charge so rapid and furious that all
fled before him. He was several paces before his comrades, and had
actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of our party,
whom some misjudging friend had intrusted with a couteau de chasse, or
hanger, inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corps worthy of Major
Sturgeon himself, struck poor Green-Breeks over the head with strength
sufficient to cut him down. When this was seen, the casualty was so far
beyond what had ever taken place before that both parties fled different
ways, leaving poor Green-Breeks, with his bright hair plentifully dabbled
in blood, to the care of the watchman, who (honest man) took care not to
know who had done the mischief. The bloody hanger was flung into one of
the Meadow ditches, and solemn secrecy was sworn on all hands; but the
remorse and terror of the actor were beyond all bounds, and his
apprehensions of the most dreadful character. The wounded hero was for a
few days in the Infirmary, the case being only a trifling one. But though
inquiry was strongly pressed on him, no argument could make him indicate
the person from whom he had received the wound, though he must have been
perfectly well known to him.
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