He said the last word in a husky tone, and then started violently.
“What is it, man?” cried the colonel excitedly, for the young officer seemed as if he were suffering from some violent spasm. “Are you hurt?”
“Something seemed to hurt me, sir,” said the young man; “but it was only a thought.”
“A thought?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “I was wondering whether it was possible.”
“Whether what was possible?” said the colonel impatiently. “Don’t speak in riddles, man.”
“No, sir. It came like a flash. Suppose the poor fellow was somewhere near the spot where we exploded the ammunition?”
“Fancy,” said the colonel coldly. “There must have been plenty of places round about the part you attacked without Lennox being there. There, lose no time; find him, and bring him back.”
“He half believes that wretched story put about by Roby,” said Dickenson to himself as he walked stiffly away, depressed in mind as well as body, and anything but fit for his journey, as he began to feel more and more. But he made an effort, stepped out boldly in spite of a sharp, catching pain, and answered briskly to the sentries’ challenges as he passed into the light shed by the lanterns here and there.
“Ready, sir?” said a voice suddenly.