Then for a few moments the young officer lay deafened and feeling stunned, till beneath the pall of smoke which hung over him he opened his eyes and saw the sergeant kneeling by his side with his lips moving.
Dickenson stared at him wonderingly, while he saw the horrified look in the man’s face and its workings as he kept on moving his lips, and finally half-raised his young officer and laid him down again.
“What’s the matter?” said Dickenson—at least he thought he did—he felt as if he had said so; but somehow he could not hear himself speak for the crashing sound of many bells ringing all together.
He did not for the moment realise what had happened, but like a flash the power of thinking came back, and drawing a deep breath, he tried to get up, but could hardly stir. Something seemed to hold him down.
“Give me your hand, sergeant,” he said, but still no words seemed to come, and he repeated what he wished to speak; but before he had completed his sentence, he grasped the fact that the sergeant’s manner had changed, for he rose up, felt behind him, looked at him again, and seemed to speak, for his lips moved.
“Are you hurt?” Dickenson said, in the same way.
The sergeant’s lips moved and he shook his head, looking the while as if he were not hurt in the least.
“Then why don’t you speak?” said Dickenson.
The man smiled and pointed to his ears.
“The explosion has deafened you?” said Dickenson dumbly, for still he could not hear a word. “What do you mean? Oh, I see.”