“No, no,” cried Bracy; “never mind me. On with
you, and lead the boys; they’re close up to that breastwork. On—on!”
Roberts turned and rushed up the rock-strewn defile, reaching his men as they crowded together for a rush, and Bracy and the man hurrying to him saw them go over it as if they were engaged in an obstacle race. The next minute they disappeared round another bend in the jagged rift, in full pursuit of the late occupants of the murderous shelter.
“And me not with ’em, and me not with ’em!” groaned the private who had fallen back. “But I don’t care. I ain’t going to leave him.”
Before he could double back to where Bracy knelt, the wounded officer sank over sidewise, with the rugged defile seeming to swim round before his eyes, and, for a few minutes, glory, the hot rage of pursuit, and the bitter disappointment of failure were as nothing. Then he opened his eyes upon the lad who was bending over him, holding a water-bottle to his lips.
“Try and drink a drop, sir, if it’s ever so little.”
The words seemed to come from a great distance off and to echo in Bracy’s head, as he made an effort and swallowed a few drops of the lukewarm fluid.
“Gedge,” he said at last with difficulty, staring hard at the lad, whose head seemed to have gone back to its old state after the blow from the falling rock, but only to swell now to a monstrous size.
“Yes, sir; it’s me, sir. Ought to have gone on with the boys, but I couldn’t leave you, sir, for fear of some of the rats coming down from the holes to cut you up.”