"Oh, no," he said cheerily, "he is worth a dozen dead men. You'll soon pull him round. Over there."
He pointed to the left and she hurried away. Wilfred lingered behind to speak to the officer. "Have you noticed a particularly tall man with the Boers?" he asked, "a man with a golden beard?"
"Yes. He asked after Burton. It seems he was a friend of his before the war."
"Has he seen him?" asked Wilfred, turning pale, for well he knew the reason of Van Zwieten's inquiries.
"No, I think not. But he intends to look him up shortly. I think your brother will pull through, Burton," and he hurried away to attend to his duties. Wilfred stood still and meditated. He grasped his revolver. "The man has lived too long," he murmured; "I must do it!"
Then he moved toward the group round his brother. Brenda was supporting his head, and a doctor was examining the wound in the poor fellow's chest. "We must wait till we get him to the hospital," he said. "Have him put into the ambulance, Mrs. Burton."
"Has he a chance, doctor?" she asked with quivering lips.
"I can't say yet. The bullet has pierced the lung. Hope for the best."
Then he hurried away with his attendants, and Brenda was left alone with her husband and Wilfred. Harold was quite unconscious, but breathing faintly, and as she bent over him, with an agonized face, she prayed that God would spare his life. Wilfred stood beside her and looked down silently on that countenance waxen in the light of the lantern. As he stood there, as Brenda placed Harold's head on her knees, both heard a mocking voice beside them.
"Well, Mrs. Burton, you are a widow at last!"