"God! If they'd suffered alongside me, if they'd been there, if they had given me groan for groan, I could have stood it—enjoyed it—damn them, I could have laughed with the lime in my eyes, if they'd been there—if they'd been there!"
He jerked himself to a sitting posture; he writhed backwards and forwards. His spite was a sort of ecstasy, possessing him, freeing him, as it seemed, from even the sense of pain.
Aylmer made a significant motion. He bent and slipped his arms beneath Landon's shoulders. The quartermaster lifted his knees.
Landon struggled in their arms.
"Let me be!" he cried. "Let me stand. Damn you, let me stand upon my own feet!"
They hesitated. Then with a shrug the quartermaster laid down his burden.
"This is no place for a blind man to pick his way," he remonstrated. "To get down, Monsieur, you have to poise yourself along the wall thirty feet above the square."
Landon stood panting and leaning against his cousin. The spasms of agony were convulsing his face.
"I will not be carried," he panted. "I'll walk upon my feet—like a man."
They looked at each other, hesitating.