And then curiously enough there was a feeling of relief in the knowledge that his wounded comrade could not understand the words he had grasped at once.
“We shall go back to camp in half an hour,” continued the officer; and then running his eye over Pen as he sat up by Punch’s side, “This fellow all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“See to his fastenings. I leave him to you.”
“But surely, sir,” cried Pen, in very good French, “you are not going to have my poor companion shot in cold blood because he has the misfortune to be wounded?”
“Eh, do you understand French?”
“Yes, sir; every word you have said.”
“But you are not an officer?”
“I have my feelings, sir, and I appeal to you as an officer and a gentleman to save that poor fellow. It would be murder, and not the act of a soldier.”
“Humph!” grunted the officer. “You boys should have stayed at home.—Here, sergeant, carry the lad into camp. Find room for him in the ambulance.—There, sir, are you satisfied now?” he continued to Pen.