"No. No."
"We ain't no cowards."
"Take us there; we're ready for 'em, sir."
"I will. That's what I've come here to tell you, for fight you shall, and this time, men, it's not defeat, but ... victory. I promise it you.... I——"
He got no further, for at the word a roar burst from the men, whose faces were white with emotion, and caps were thrown in the air. Then again there was silence, for Hector's hand a second time was raised. "Now, go back to your lines, pick up those arms lying there in the mud"—a rush for the discarded weapons—"you'll want them soon enough. See, the rain has stopped and the sun is shining. Go and get ready."
The crowd melted away, leaving Graeme and the trumpeter alone, save for a rigid figure lying huddled in the mud, with a blue mark on its forehead. With tired eyes Hector looked around him, for he was worn out and shaken with the strain of his emotions.
"Sykes, I'm done, tired out."
"Why not 'ave a sleep, sir?"
"Why not? You're right, I will. We must get rid of that, though, first," glancing down; "it's as poisonous dead as alive. Here you," he called to a passing sergeant, who instantly came running up at the summons, and, smartly saluting, stood at attention before him, "take that away, and bury it. Dig a hole anywhere and shove it in."
The man touched the corpse with his foot contemptuously. "Very good, sir," he answered, "I'll have him put in the refuse pit—best place for 'im. Glad he's dead, sir; he was the cause of 'arf the trouble."