"I did that jolly well, sir: Hoc solus feci."
"By and by," said John impatiently, thinking that the Bengali had some trifling act to relate at epic length. Said Mohammed's smile vanished like an April sun behind a cloud. He looked sorrowfully after John's retreating form, then brightened a little as he caught sight of Ferrier.
"Esteemed sir," he said, advancing towards him, "this humble billy was the Deus ex machina."
"Eh! What! You aren't hurt, are you?" said Ferrier, hurrying by.
"Only in my soul," muttered Said Mohammed, gloom descending upon him. "'Slow rises worth by poverty depressed.'"
John and Ferrier spent the next half-hour in attending to the wounded. Not a man had been killed; but several were suffering from spear wounds, and still more from rifle shots. The white men were again struck by the uncomplaining patience of the injured men.
"You may call it a lack of sensibility if you like," said Ferrier, "but I guess it's a fine thing from a military point of view."
"One can understand how Wellington's army in the Peninsula, the scum of the earth, as he called them, did what they did. I wish we could do something for these poor chaps. One of them is done for, I'm afraid; I don't feel fit to-day to dig out the bullets from the others. All we can do is to bathe 'em and bandage them up; they've astonishing vitality. Did you read some time ago about a fellow who got a bullet in him in the Franco-Prussian war, and didn't have it removed till thirty years afterwards? Hallo! You've had a knock yourself."
"So have you."
"I didn't know it," said John, looking himself up and down.