At first he seemed dazed, then, as he began to realise my words, a great sob of relief shook him from head to foot.
"And Francis," I added, after a short pause, "I will remember that he is my cousin—and my brother."
He stood up like one who has passed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, yet with a look almost of peace upon his spiritualised face.
"Hugh, will you take my hand?"
I took it, wrung it warmly, and left him. What more could I have done? He was better alone.
*****
Like the sands of the desert before a fierce sirocco, the followers of the false prophet were flying far and wide. It had been a fierce fight. They had come down upon us like a whirlwind, with their lances gleaming like silver in the sunlight, and wild cries of "Allah! Allah!" bursting from their lips. But the maddening enthusiasm of fanatical zeal had quickly burnt itself out. We had driven them behind their trenches, only to carry them at the point of the bayonet and drive them out into the desert. The victory was complete.
With my broken sword still in my hand, and my face streaming with blood and perspiration, I kneeled with wildly beating heart by the side of my father's prostrate body. For I had found him lying white and still at the bottom of one of the trenches, and—oh, the horror of it!—with a great gaping wound in his side.
"My father! My father, speak to me!" I cried. "O God! if this should be death!"
He opened his eyes slowly, and, dimmed though they were, he recognised me at once.