What was that? We listened breathlessly, and again we heard a low groan almost in our midst. There was a shell-hole just in front, and crawling along on all fours, I found Septimus D'Arcy, wounded and helpless, with his left leg almost blown away, and bleeding from the head.
"What's up, D'Arcy? What has happened?" I whispered hoarsely.
A faint smile of recognition came over his pale face as I supported him in my arms. His words came painfully:
"The ammunition—is it—safe?"
"Yes, quite safe."
"But what happened after they left?"
"I stayed behind—with the corporal—to protect their retirement. We opened rapid fire—to draw German fire on to us. I saw six creeping forward. They called to us—to surrender. I refused—demn them! They threw bombs—killed the corporal—dirty dogs! smashed my leg—nothing much. I picked off three—with my revolver—never used beastly thing before; two bolted—last one jumped at me—with bayonet. That's him there—just got him—last cartridge."
Septimus was lying heavily on my arms. Nothing could be done for him; I saw the end was at hand.
"Good-bye, captain! Knew you'd come. Don't know much about soldiering—good sport; shan't have to carry that—demned pack again."
A placid smile came over his chubby face as he gasped out the last words. His monocle was still firmly fixed between his fat cheek and his eyebrow. Once more he seemed indifferent to his surroundings.