"But are you hurt, sir?"
"Pas trop…. Not quite what I was at dawn; and not quite what I shall be at dark."
He was sitting strangely huddled.
"May I see?" begged Kit, fingers at his breast.
"Certainly not," the other replied with his faint chuckle.
"But have they made you comfortable?"
"Quite…. So kind, you English—once you've got your own way. I've been lying here, dreaming and drifting, while the flies buzzed and Sailor on the table there muttered about his Saviour."
The Parson bent over him.
"Sir," he said, "what you must think of me—"
His voice came in gusts.