He was in no pain, but felt as if he were listening to something that was taking place at a distance. There were defiant shouts, there was the rushing of feet, there was firing. Orders were being given in French; but what it all meant he could not grasp, till all at once it seemed to him that it was very dark, and a hot, wet hand was laid upon his forehead.
Then a voice came—a familiar voice; but this too seemed to be from far away, and it did not seem natural that he should be feeling the touch upon his forehead while the voice came from a distance.
“I say, they haven’t done for you, have they, comrade? Oh, do try to speak. Tell me where it hurts.”
“Hurts! That you, Punch?”
“Course it is. Hooray! Where’s your wound? Speak up, or I can’t make it out in all this row. Where have you got it?”
“Got what?”
“Why, I telled you. The wound.”
“My wound?” said Pen dreamily. Why, you know—in my leg. But it’s better now. So am I. But what does it all mean? Did something hit me on the head?
“I didn’t half see; but you went down a horrid kelch, and must have hit your head against the rocks.”
“Yes, yes, I am beginning to understand now. But where are we? What’s going on? Fighting?”