“No,” said another voice. “Why?”
“Because I am Sergeant of the Guard, my lads, and I shall have to go back and meet the King.”
There was a peculiar sound from the little body of men, caused by their simultaneously sharply drawing in their breath, and then silence once again, as they listened to make sure that the beating of hoofs had passed beyond their ken. Then once more the sergeant spoke out.
“Halberds here,” he said sharply, “and make a litter for this poor chap. That’s right; lift him gently. Have you got it badly, lad?”
“No, sergeant; only my left arm broke. It was the hoof of a horse as he galloped over me and struck me aside.”
“Hah!” said the sergeant, as he marched beside the improvised litter and went on talking to his injured man. “It’s bad, my lad, bad; but it don’t mean funeral march, and between ourselves, Staines Dick. I wish I was you.”