“To see that there was no sign of fire anywhere about. Weren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Stan. “How horribly the place smells!” Then, with his thoughts reverting to the late engagement: “I say, the enemy must have lost very heavily.”
“Awfully, sir,” said the man; and then meaningly, “Didn’t you see the crows?”
Stan’s brave companion was alluding to a long line of dusky birds that were following the dismal objects floating in direful procession down the river, and coming up from all directions to join their friends.
“Yes,” said the lad, with a shudder, “I saw them;” and at the same minute a voice came from behind, one of the party calling the attention of another to the same strange piece of animal instinct.
“I say,” he said, “look how the crows are coming up. How can they know when there is a fight?”
He called them crows—the common term—but he meant vultures, the scavengers of the Chinese villages and towns.
Blunt was sleeping heavily, or rather, he was lying back in a state of semi-stupor, the result of his wounds and the exertion of moving when in so weak a state. Wing was at his side, busily wafting the fan to and fro, but closing it quickly from time to time to make a blow at some troublesome, obtrusive fly, but never hitting once.
“Still asleep?” said Stan in a whisper.
“Yes, sleep velly fast,” replied the man. “Velly bad indeed. Hot in head now. Keep talkee. Say silly pidgin nonsense. Wanted get up and go ’way while all fight. Heah pilate shout. Wanted go see. Wing tly to ’top him. Say knock Wing down not get out o’ way.—You been killee all pilate?”