Then,
"Steady, Monroe," he heard a voice behind him. "You will need all your courage."
Horace turned at the words.
The master was kneeling at the side of the road, beside Deschamps, who was stretched out limply, the blood oozing from a wound in his forehead.
The sight steadied Horace at once. He got a grip on himself, though he was still dizzy and sick with the shock of the shell and his head was ringing painfully. One ear seemed deaf. A black giddiness seized him as he crossed the road with staggering, uncertain steps.
"Is he killed?" asked Horace.
"No," answered the master, "but badly hurt. His wound will need instant attention. Unhinge a shutter from the cottage over there."
Running with stumbling steps to the deserted bake-shop, Horace lifted from its hinges one of the long shutters and dragged it back to where his comrade lay.
"Put him on this," said the master softly.
Together they lifted the would-be recruit and laid him gently on the shutter, then picked up the burden, the master taking the head and Horace the feet.