“Very,” said Pen thoughtfully. “Pain gone off?”
“Yes; I am all right now. Think she will come back soon?”
“No, not for hours and hours.”
“Oh, I say, Pen. Think it would be safe for me to go to sleep?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Then I think I will, for I feel as if I could sleep for a week.”
“Go to sleep then. It’s the best thing you can do.”
“Well, I will. Only, promise me one thing: if she comes while I’m asleep, I—I—want you—promise—promise—wake—”
“Poor fellow!” said Pen, “he’s as weak as weak. But that breakfast has been like life to him. Well, there’s some truth in what they say, that when things come to the worst they begin to mend.”
A few minutes later, after noting that his poor wounded comrade had sunk into a deep sleep, Pen stole gently out among the trees, keeping a sharp lookout for danger as he swept the slopes of the valley in search of signs of the enemy, for he felt that it was too much to hope for the dark-green or scarlet of one of their own men.