I paused there, and then repeated the words in a strange, puzzled way—“Poor fellow lying wounded—poor fellow lying wounded.”
And then, with the intention of sitting up, I moved my arm.
No; I only tried to move it, and felt a horrible twinge of pain. Then I tried to raise my head, but it felt like so much lead, and the effort made me feel sick.
But my mind was active now, and as I said in a whisper, “Why, I must be wounded,” the scene of our last gallop came back to my mind with vivid force, and I saw it all, and even, as it were, felt the sensation of the mad gallop, and the shock of our collision with the sowars, even to the curious sensation of galloping along with our men firing at us, and then awakening to the fact that I had fierce-looking troopers on either side, and then of one cutting at me, and another interposing to save my life.
Yes; I could recollect that clearly, and I recalled, too, the poor fellow falling headlong from his horse.
Was that I?
It seemed as if it must have been; but in a confused way I argued that, if it had, I could not have sat on horseback and seen him fall.
I was still puzzling about it with a feeling upon me that my brain would not work properly, when a purdah was thrust on one side, and a tall, grave, grey-bearded man in white and gold came slowly in. His voluminous turban was of white muslin, and his long snowy garment descended almost to his feet.
I felt, as he gravely fixed his eyes upon me, and advanced to where I lay, that this must be a kind of dream, and that possibly the sun had beat so hotly upon my helmet that it had had some effect upon my brain. Consequently, all I had to do was to be still, and then all would come clear.
But the dream became to me wonderfully real as the tall grave Mussulman went down on one knee and laid his hand upon my head, the touch feeling cool and pleasant, while, as he saw my eyes fixed upon his inquiringly, he said in very good English—