He stretched out his hand again, and having discovered the sentry's arm, placed the tips of his fingers on the wrist. But there was no movement of the pulse, though he longed to feel it. Struggling into a sitting position, he shuffled closer to the man, and listened to hear if he were breathing. But there was not a sound; not even a sigh rewarded his attention.
"Poor beggar! Dead!" he exclaimed. "Well, it is the fortune of war, for it was my life or his. I suppose he struck his head in falling."
This was, in fact, the case, and to it Hal no doubt owed his life. But he had no time to sit there and think. Dawn was dangerously near, and if he was to reach a safe haven, he must be moving at once.
"Ah, I've got it!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I'll change into his clothes."
He started to his feet, and going to where the body lay, undid the buttons, and tore tunic and trousers off. The boots and socks followed, and were rapidly transferred to his own person. Then he picked up the rifle, and prepared to move away.
"Supposing his comrades come in the morning and find him?" he suddenly asked himself. "They will suspect that someone has landed, and borrowed his clothes. I must tumble him into the water."
He bent over the limp figure of the unfortunate sentry once more, and carefully felt for a heart-beat. But there was none, and it was evident that the man was dead.
"It's not nice, I know," Hal murmured. "But it's for my safety, and therefore must be done. He won't be any the worse off, poor fellow!"
It was indeed a trying act for any young man to carry out, and it was not without a fierce struggle that Hal at length overcame his compunction. War was war, he told himself, and this kind of thing was bound to happen. He must put aside all feelings of compassion and act like a man.
The thought braced his nerves, and dropping the rifle for a moment, he stooped, lifted the lifeless form in his arms, and tossed it into the sea.