After the Battle

My father, this hero with such a soft smile,
Followed by a single hussar whom he loved above all others
For his great bravery and for his tall stature
Was travelling on horseback, on the evening of a battle,
The field covered with the dead upon whom the night was falling.
He thought he heard a faint noise in the shadows.
It was a Spaniard of the routed army
Bleeding, dragging himself along the side of the road
Gasping, broken, pale, more dead than alive,
And who said to him “A drink! A drink for pity’s sake!”
My father, moved, handed to his faithful hussar,
A flask of rum which hung from his saddle,
And said: “Here, give this poor wounded man a drink”.
All of a sudden, when the soldier was bending down
And leaning towards him, the man, some kind of Moor,
Grabbed a pistol that he was still clutching in his hand,
And aimed at my father’s forehead, crying “Caramba!”
The bullet flew so closely by that his hat fell off
And his horse stumbled backwards.
“All the same, give him a drink”, said my father.

Victor Hugo