“No, sir. As far as I can make out by what’s left of his clothes, he’s one of the enemy.”
“One of the enemy!” cried the Major. “Why, we are coming to the truth, then. No one of the enemy could have been there—unless—”
“Look here,” said the Doctor in his busy way, “you said wounded man, my lad?”
“Yes, sir; he’s alive, for he moved when we touched him, and groaned. But he’s got it badly.”
“Well,” said the Doctor sharply, “a wounded man, whether he’s one of ourselves or an enemy, is all one to me;” and he walked with the rest, after a glance or two in the direction of the silent forest, from which the attack had come, towards the still blazing fire, where a little group of the spade party was standing round a dark object lying at some distance on the other side of the ruins of the magazine.
The party drew back a little to make way for their officers, and Archie shuddered as he caught sight of the horribly blackened object before them.
“A litter here,” said the Doctor shortly. “I will have him up into hospital, but I’m afraid it’s a hopeless case.”
As the Doctor rose from one knee, something bright caught Archie’s eye and somehow brought to mind the gold bracelet he had seen the French Count wear. Then thought after thought flashed through his mind, as he heard a deep, muttering groan, and the man who had brought the tidings whispered to his young officer:
“That’s the same as he did before, sir—just cried ‘Lo-lo-lo!’ or something like that.”
“Why, Doctor,” said Archie excitedly, “did you hear the rest—‘De l’eau’? He was asking for water.”