For a moment he fancied himself back in a little French cottage, deep in a wood, with Jean Paulet by his side. "Thank you, Jean—I'm all right," he said faintly.
But the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the shouts of charging soldiers, dispersed that dream. He opened his eyes to find himself lying on the ground. One of his men, Private Foster, was busily fastening a rough-and-ready bandage round his arm.
"Think you'll do now, sir? It don't bleed so much. Only a flesh wound, but it's gone pretty deep."
"O I'm all right." Roy managed this time to say the words clearly. "I wish I could have kept up with them. Are you hurt?"
"Only my foot, sir. The Colonel told me I was to look after you. He said you was to go to the town."
Roy was beginning to be aware of pretty sharp pain in the slashed arm. It was his first wound, and he might be excused for certain sick sensations, having fought as pluckily as an Englishman may. He pulled himself to a sitting posture, and looked round. The regiments of the Reserve were by this time far ahead, literally sweeping the whole valley clear of the shattered remnants, which but a short space back had formed a powerful column.
Roy waved his cap over his head with his left hand, and gave vent to a hearty though rather faint "Hurrah!"
"I think I can walk now all right," he said. "Don't mind about me, Foster. Your foot is bad."
"I can hobble a bit, sir. I'd sooner see you on your way. You'd maybe get the bandage wrong, and set it bleeding afresh." Roy's men were not a little fond of him.
And the two set off together on a long and painful trudge to Coruña.