The Parson looked down at him.
"Well, you're a calm chap," he said with slow delight.
Better than anything in the world he loved a brave man.
"I know my man," replied the other in the same still voice.
He was far away in April twilight-land.
The fine face, gay as the morning a few minutes since, had now a wistful evening look. The shadows had fallen on it: rain was not far.
Even the Parson, blind-eyed Englishman that he was, noticed it, and was touched. After all the man was a boy, and a beaten boy.
"Are you hurt?" he gruffed.
"No—not hurt."
The Parson thought he understood.