“He ain’t a-going to die,” said Tom, sniffing again.
“He is—he is; and no doctor near!”
“No,” said Tom, with another sniff; “he’s miles away, along o’ them poor wounded chaps we left behind.”
“I can do nothing, nothing more—and he’s somebody’s bairn!”
“Yes,” said the boy hoarsely, “and the Frenchies killed ’em, for Joe Beane telled the men as the sight he see was horrid.”
“Hush! Ah, look,” whispered the woman, and she bent over the poor little victim, who wailed faintly, “Oh, don’t—don’t—Ah!”
Then he lay silent and motionless, as his rough nurse softly laid her hand upon the fire-scorched forehead.
“Why, that there ain’t Portygeeze,” whispered Tom, staring.
“Well, old gal, what about him now?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Joe; I don’t know. He just spoke a little.”