“Only me, Duncombe,” said Denham. “Just come to see how Wren is.”
“Better, thank goodness,” said the doctor. “He seemed to come-to about five minutes ago.”
“I am glad, Wren,” said Denham, setting down the lamp beside the lantern.
“Thank ye, sir,” said the poor fellow, smiling. “Moray’s come with me to look you up.” The wounded man looked pleased to see me, and then his face puckered up as he turned his eyes again to the doctor and said:
“I don’t mind the crack on the head, sir, a bit. Soldiers deal in hard knocks, and they must expect to get some back in return. I know I’ve given plenty. It’s being such a soft worries me.”
“Well, don’t let it worry you. Help me by taking it all coolly, and I’ll soon get you well again.”
“That you will, sir. I know that,” said the man gently. “But I feel as if I should like to tell the Colonel that I was trying to do my duty.”
“He doesn’t want telling that, Sam,” said Denham. “Of course you were.”
“But I oughtn’t to have been such a fool, sir—such a soft Tommy of a fellow. I knew he was a humbug; but he looked so bad, and pulled such a long face, that I didn’t like to be hard. ‘Here, sentry,’ he says, as he sat up with his back to the wall, just after you’d gone, ‘this right leg’s gone all dead again. It’s strained and wrenched through the horse lying upon it all those hours. Just come and double up one of those sacks and lay it underneath for a cushion. The pain keeps me from going to sleep.’”
“Oh, that’s how it happened—was it?” said the doctor, while we two listened eagerly.