"Dunno; he's badly hurt—shot through the lungs, and he's asked for you several times."
It was a cruel night for the wounded, with nothing to shelter them from the bitter cold. Valentine lay upon the ground, with his head propped up against a saddle. The surgeon was stooping over him as the two men approached, and the light of his lamp tell on the pale, pinched features of the sufferer. Within the last three days Jack had seen scores of men hurried into eternity, and his senses had become hardened by constant association with bloodshed and violent death, yet the sight of those unmistakable lines on that one familiar face turned his heart to stone.
"You're some relative, I believe. He seemed very anxious to see you, so I sent the orderly. What?— Yes, you may stay with him if you like; but keep quiet, and don't let him talk more than you can help."
"Is—is he dying, sir?"
"He may live till morning, but I doubt if he will."
Jack went down on his knees. There was no "sir" this time—sword, and sash, and shoulder-strap were all forgotten.
"Val!" The great, grey eyes, already heavy with the sleep of death, opened wide.
"Jack! my dear Jack!"
"Yes; I've come to look after you. Are you in much pain?"
"No—only when I cough—and—it's dreadfully cold."