"You shall come back. I want to take a look at your arm."
They were near the door, and Roy submitted, caring little at the moment whether his own hurts were great or small. He bore the surgeon's handling without a wince.
"Nothing serious, I'm glad to find. A clean cut, and you'll soon be right again. The loss of blood makes you feel a trifle queer, of course."
Roy crept once more silently into the room. He passed near enough to the mattress to receive one last kind glance and smile, which all but broke him down. But by this time Moore's agony had become so overwhelming, that he was unable to speak, and his face had grown deathly pale. Colonel Anderson from first to last remained close by his side, supporting him as he lay.
After a while he so far mastered the torture as to utter one short sentence after another, at intervals.
"Anderson, you know that I have always wished to die in this way," came first. As the officers of his staff appeared, one by one, he put the same question to each, "Are the French beaten?"
Next, with unconscious pathos, read now in the light of after misrepresentations—
"I hope the people of England will be satisfied! I hope my Country will do me justice."
Presently there was the thought of his own relatives.
"Anderson—you will see my friends, as soon as you can. Tell them—everything. Say to my mother—"