“It seems to be their nature to be always fighting,” sighed Bracy.
“Yes. I don’t believe they could live without it. They must fight something or somebody, and regularly enjoy a good skirmish.”
“You haven’t said anything about Colonel Wrayford the last day or two.”
“No, poor fellow! he’s in a very low state. Between ourselves, boy, we only came just, in time.”
“What, do you mean?”
“To save Ghittah. Those fellows would have done their best; but they would have been overmatched, and without their Colonel they’d have given way at last, and the people at home would have been reading of a terrible reverse in the Dwat district. Massacre of the British force.”
“Not so bad as that surely.”
“I don’t know. Poor Wrayford had worked till he was utterly exhausted, body and mind, and as soon as Graves began to relieve him of part of the strain it was just as if something snapped, and he curled up at once. Morton says it was all from overstrain after his wound, and that he’ll want a twelvemonth at home to get back his strength.”
“I beg pardon, sir,” said a hard, acid voice; “it is quite time Mr Bracy had his lunch.”
Roberts turned quickly upon the stern, frowning, youngish woman who had entered silently in a pair of home-made list slippers, and stood in the doorway gazing at him fixedly.