The humming ceased, and Kit missed it.
"Are you there, Knapp?"
"Yes, sir. Smotherified feelin, ain't it?"
"Do you hear anything?"
"Only me own teeth chatter."
"Hush, then."
They were drawing near the man-hole.
The boy was sweating, shivering. He was living in death.
A very little, and he would have had one of his old screaming panics of the night-nursery. Then that tiny diamond of light, hanging in the blackness before him, the one word written across it, steadied him. It was a star, his star. It sang to him the Song of Faith.
Besides, how could he run away?—he, an officer, a gentleman, a sailor, run away before a private soldier? No. It is easier to lead somebody who believes you to be brave than to let him know you are a coward—especially if he's a soldier. The thought tickled him, and his heart surged upward.