“No,” I cried quickly. “My father and brother, who came to help us to escape.”
“That’s right,” cried the officer, and the firing and cheering went on near at hand. Then he added hastily, “Sergeant and four men stop and help these gentlemen to the rear. Now, my lads, forward!”
He sprang out into the darkness, followed by his men, and we were left together, with my father down upon his knees holding me to his breast, and his lips close by my ear murmuring softly two words again and again—“Thank God! Thank God!” while Bob held on to one of my hands, jerking it spasmodically; and then I heard him cry out to one of the soldiers, “Don’t stare at me like that! I can’t help it. You’d be as bad if you were as young.”
“What!” cried a rough voice. “Why, I’m ’most as bad, and I’m six-and-thirty; and here’s big George wiping one eye on his cuff.”
“Sweat, Sergeant, sweat,” growled a rough voice, and there was a laugh from other three men.
“That was a lie, George,” said the Sergeant. “Why don’t you own up like a man?”
“Well, ’nuff to make any one turn soft when he’s cooling down after a fight like this. Look at them two poor fellows here.”
“Ah!” came in chorus, as the men standing around bent down in sympathy.
“’Tention!” cried the Sergeant. “Here. Files one and three mount guard front and rear of this dropsical timber-wagon. Two and four get some water. First aid here. Stop a minute. No; kneel down and just rub their legs gently as if you were trying to take out those furrows made by the ropes.—Why, your legs and feet are like stone, sir.”
“Are they?” said Denham, quietly now, as he reached forward to shake the Sergeant’s hand. “I didn’t know—I don’t feel as if I had any legs at all. There,” he added excitedly, “I want to shake hands with you all round. It’s so much better than being shot in the morning.”