I showed him my English passport, as clearing the way for me, and, with a mere glance at it, he returned it.
“I hope you will have better news than I fear of your friend,” he said warmly.
I could not answer him; I was too broken with this new trouble. I followed the mournful little procession, and I am not ashamed to say that as I watched it and gazed at the white face in the litter my eyes were more than once half blinded by tears.
CHAPTER XXXII
“GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN”
Down in that lonely Servian village, nestling beautifully at the foot of a range of hills, a scene followed, inexpressibly sad and mournful to me.
We carried Zoiloff to the house of the priest, a man whose heart was as large as his means were straitened, and together we laid my poor friend on the low truckle bed in the barely furnished room. I helped while the examination of his wounds was made, watching the priest’s face with an anxiety that cannot be put in words.
“How did it happen?” he whispered.
“A gunshot wound somewhere in the back, I fear,” I told him.
But there was no need for this explanation, for the blood guided him to the wound easily enough.
“The ball has passed through his body and through his right lung.”