“Ah, Belton!” greeted him; “I am glad you have come.”
“Why?” thought Syd, with a feeling of horror chilling him—“why is he glad I’ve come?” and something seemed to whisper—“is it the end?”
“I’m afraid I am impatient; my leg hurts, and I’ve been asleep and dreaming since you dressed it so cleverly yesterday.”
“Dressed it yesterday!” faltered Syd, as he recalled the days and nights of anxiety passed since the injury.
“Yes; you thought I was insensible, but I heard everything,” said the lieutenant, slowly. “I saw everything; felt everything.”
“You knew when I dressed it yesterday, with the boy standing here?”
“No, no; out yonder below the place where that wretched gun was to be mounted, and the sun came down so hot.”
Syd laid his hand upon the young officer’s brow, but it was quite cool.
“I am terribly weak, but I don’t feel feverish, as so many men are when they are wounded. I suppose I bled a great deal.”
“Terribly; but don’t—don’t talk about it now.”