Friedrich himself got wounded here;--poor young Archenholtz too, ONLY wounded, not killed, as so many were:--Friedrich's wound was a contusion on the breast; came of some spent bit of case-shot, deadened farther by a famed pelisse he wore,--"which saved my life," he said afterwards to Henri.

The King himself little regarded it (mentioning it only to Brother Henri, on inquiry and solicitation), during the few weeks it still hung about him.

The Books intimate that it struck him to the earth, void of consciousness for some time, to the terror of those about him; and that he started up, disregarding it altogether in this press of business, and almost as if ashamed of himself, which imposed silence on people's tongues.

In military circles there is still, on this latter point, an Anecdote; which I cannot confirm or deny, but will give for the sake of Berenhorst and his famed Book on the ART OF WAR.

Berenhorst--a natural son of the Old Dessauer's, and evidently enough a chip of the old block, only gone into the articulate-speaking or intellectual form--was, for the present, an Adjutant or Aide-de-camp of Friedrich's; and at this juncture was seen bending over the swooned Friedrich, perhaps with an over-pathos or elaborate something in his expression of countenance: when Friedrich reopened his indignant eyes: "WAS MACHT ER HIER ?" cried Friedrich: "ER SAMMLE FUYARDS! What have you to do here?
Go and gather runaways" (be of some real use, can't you)!--which unkind cut struck deep into Berenhorst, they say; and could never after be eradicated from his gloomy heart.