Explore "My Lady Rotha" by Stanley J. Weyman on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When a man lies fettered at the bottom of a jolting waggon, and, unable to help himself, is made a pillow for wounded wretches, whose feverish struggles go near to stifling him; and when to these miseries are added the heat of a sultry night, thirst, and the near prospect of death, passion soon dies down. Anger gives place to pain and the chill of apprehension. The man begins to know himself again -- forgets his enemies, thinks of his friends.
It was so with me. The general's back was not turned before I ceased to cry out; and that gained me the one alleviation I had -- that I was not gagged. They piled the waggon with bleeding, groaning men, -- of our side, of course, for no quarter was given to the other, -- and I shuddered as each mangled wretch came in. Still, I had my mouth free. If I could not move, I could breathe, and hear what passed round me. I could see the dark night sky lit up by the glare of the fires, or, later, watch the stars shining coldly and indifferently down on this scene of pain and misery.