It would have been difficult to say which looked in the sorrier plight, Jack's marines or Llewellyn's Highlanders. Both had high cheek-bones now, telling of want of sleep and scanty fare; but many had cheeks that were touched with a hectic flush, eyes all too bright, and the ringing cough that spoke of fever within. Death had already marked them for his victims. But Death had been so busy of late that he hardly knew where to turn.
The Highlanders' legs were red and bleeding round and above the knees. When a kilt gets wet, the greater part of the moisture sinks to the lower part; and when this is frozen, it always cuts. Their shoes or boots were holed, their stockings too, and some had bare cut feet bound round with rags.
But during the short time that the two parties halted, the privates became very friendly, and food was freely "swapped" for morsels of tobacco.
"So you see," said Llewellyn, "my Highlanders are pack-horses now. We carry siege material as well as biscuit and food; for, Mr. Sturdy, we are going to have another go at the Russians before long. The Redan and Barrack Battery are both to be taken in fine style."
"Well, I wish you luck, Llewellyn."
"It is fighting we want," said the young soldier. "Bother it all, our fellows might as well have stayed at home and ploughed the fields, as come here to play at being pack-horses and shore porters."
"Good-bye till we meet."
"Good-bye, good-bye."
Jack and his party were some distance off, when Llewellyn ran after them.
"Jack, old cousin," he said, "a mail-boat has just come in; I've seen the signal. Now for letters from home."