“Beaten. Yes,” And his voice was graver than before at the thought of what he had seen since they had been prisoners.
On, on, on, through the dark hours, with Punch falling off every now and again into a fitful sleep—a sleep broken by sudden intervals of half-consciousness, when Pen’s heart was wrung by the broken words uttered by his companion: “Not going to shoot me, are they? Don’t let them do that, comrade.” While, as the weary procession continued its way on to the next village, where they were about to halt, Pen had another distraction, for as he trudged painfully on by the side of the creaking wagon a hand was suddenly placed on his arm.
He turned sharply.
“Eh, what?” he cried.
“Well?” said a half-familiar voice, and in the dim light he recognised the features of the young French captain who had listened to his appeal to save the bugler’s life.
“Rough work, sir,” said Pen.
“Yes. Your fellows played a bold game in trying to dislodge us. Nearly succeeded, ma foi! But we drove them back.”
“Yes,” said Pen.
“How’s your friend?” asked the captain.
“Better.”