“We aren’t worse, are we, and all this a sort o’ nightmare before we loses ourselves altogether?”
“No, man, no. Listen. They must be getting the worst of it.”
“Our lads, sir? Oh, don’t say that! There must be a lot of them, by the volley-firing. Don’t say they’re being cut up.”
“The enemy, man. Can’t you hear how steady the firing is?—Splendid. I can almost see them. The enemy must be retiring stubbornly, and they’re following them up.”
“Yes, sir; that’s it,” cried Gedge wildly. “Go on, sir; go on.”
“Their officers are holding the men well in hand, so as not to come to a charge in that broken country, and withering the crowd with their fire to make them scatter.”
“Right, sir, right. That’s it. Oh, if we was only there!”
There was a pause—the two men listening.
“The enemy’s firing sounds more broken up, and is getting feebler.”
“Yes, sir; I can make out that,” panted Gedge. “Oh! I say, don’t let the lads get out of hand and follow the beggars where they can get hold of the bay’nets and use their long knives.”