II
The Parson at his side was stroking his calves.
The boy watched him with dreamy eyes.
"Are you hurt, sir?" he asked in a far-away voice.
It came from the depths of no-where. It seemed no longer his. He listened to it with awe.
"Nothing that matters," replied the Parson. "Thank God for His great mercies, and my dear lady here."
Lifting his sword, he kissed the hilt.
"She was inspired," he said in reverent whisper. "I never saw the like and never shall again." He wiped the blade upon his knee-breeches. "Their beastly hairs stick yet—see!"
The boy heard no word. He sat quite still, his eyes on that twinkling waste beneath the boom. The sun, which had been shining through mist, now blazed hot upon his face. He eased the boat away, and the shadow of the great brown lug fell upon him comfortably.
"It's all very wonderful," he said, his eyes on the musing waters.
"It's a miracle—nothing less," replied the Parson, unslinging the despatch-bag. "This bag did me yeoman service. Look!" It was slashed to ribands, the rolled coat within gashed through and through; and as he shook it a bullet fell out of the folds. "I owe my life to it and Piper's shooting. The old man dropped a chap dead at two hundred yards as he was braining me."
The boy woke at last.
"What of him—old Piper?"
"Ah, what?" said the Parson, grey and grave beneath the sweat.
Neither spoke again.