“No, but we oughtn’t to have trusted him at all. We ought to have felt that we knew better than a dog.”
“Stop! What are you going to do?” cried Gwyn, angrily.
“This,” said Joe; and he let himself sink down on the rocky floor, and laid his head on his hand.
“No, no; get up! You sha’n’t turn coward like this. Get up, I say!”
“I—can’t,” said Joe. “I’m dead beat. You go on, and if Grip takes you out try and find me again. If you can’t, tell father I did my best.”
“I won’t; I sha’n’t,” cried Gwyn, furiously. “Think I’m going to leave you?”
“Yes. Save yourself.”
“You get up,” cried Gwyn; and stooping down, he caught one of his companion’s arms, dragged at it with a heavy jerk, and found that he had miscalculated his strength, for he sank upon his knees, felt as if the lanthorn was gliding round him, and then subsided close by where Joe lay, while just then the dog gave a furious tug at the leash, freed itself, and dashed off into the darkness, barking apparently with delight.
“It’s of no good, Joe; I’m as bad as you,” said Gwyn, slowly; “I can’t get up again.”
“Never mind, Ydoll; we have done our duty, old chap, as the dads said we ought to as soldiers’ sons. We have, haven’t we?”