“Hooray!” A tremendously hearty British cheer—only that of a company, but as loud it seemed as if given by the whole regiment; and the next thing out of the confused dream was the feeling of his hand being grasped, and the hearing of his brother officer’s voice.
“Splendid, old man!” he whispered. “Talk about pluck! But what’s the matter? Don’t say you’re hurt?”
“No—no, I think not. Only feel a bit stunned.”
“Then you’re hit by a stone?”
“No, no. There, I’m better now. Here! That poor fellow Gedge! I hope he isn’t killed.”
They turned to the little group of men who surrounded poor Gedge, now lying on his back, with Gee upon one knee bending over him, and trying to give him some water from his canteen.
“Dead?” cried Bracy excitedly.
“’Fraid so, sir,” replied the Sergeant. “Stone hit him on the ’elmet, and I expect his head’s caved in.”
“Bathe his face with a handful of the water,” said Bracy sadly. “Poor lad! this was horribly sudden.”
Both he and Roberts looked down sadly at the stony face so lately full of mischievous animation, and in view of the perilous position in which they stood and the duty he had to do, the Captain was about to order the men to make an extempore stretcher of their rifles and the Sergeant’s strong netted sash, so that the retreat could be continued, when Gee dashed some water in the prostrate lad’s face.