"Mon Dieu! you've had hard luck! Weil, I must get on or our lively red-legs won't leave a stick in Sebastopol. We've been doing all we could to get in, and now my orders are to let no one in on any account. Adieu!" And they went off at a clanking gallop to make up for lost time.
Jim set off again in gloomy spirits for British Head-quarters on the other side of the Balaclava road.
Jack gone! His father gone! George Herapath and Ralph Harben gone. His little world seemed devastated. He wondered if any of the home folk were left.
Gracie--Good God!--suppose Gracie were dead! And Charles Eager, and Sir Denzil! In six months anything might have happened to any or all of them.
Tatia was the only fairly cheerful member of the party. To her it was like heaven to be out of that dreadful prison-house below. She had grown so used to the smell of gunpowder that the keen sweet air intoxicated her with delight. Her mother was very weary with the long walk; and as for Greski, his thigh was giving him pain, and the only thing he wanted now was to sit down and rest it.
Except for the sentries and a few underlings, British Head-quarters was deserted like the rest of the camp. All the world was down at the front, watching the end of Sebastopol. So they sat on a bench in the sunshine, and waited for some one to turn up.
The first to come was McLean, the young doctor with whom Jim had crossed to Constantinople on the Carnbrea. He was looking older, but well and cheerful.
"Hello!" he cried, as soon as his eyes lighted on Jim. "It's good to set eyes on some one alive that one knew six months ago. Where have you been all this time? I see you've suffered too"--with a glance at the empty sleeve.
"Been in Sebastopol for last nine months. Glad to get out."
"About as glad as we are to get in. Going home, I suppose?"