"Lieutenant," said a trooper, just after the charge on the trenches, "I think I'm wounded."
"Can you get to the rear without help?"
"I think I can, sir," and he started. After twenty paces he pitched forward—dead. His wound was through the heart.
At the divisional hospital were more lights, tents, surgeons, stripped figures on the tables under the lights; rows of figures in darkness outside the tents; and rows of muffled shapes behind; the smell of anæsthetics and cleansing fluids; heavy breathing, heavy groaning, and an occasional curse on the night air.
Beyond him was a stretch of moonlit road and coming toward him was a soldier, his arm in a sling, and staggering weakly from side to side. With a start of pure gladness he saw that it was Crittenden, and he advanced with his hand outstretched.
"Are you badly hurt?"
"Oh, no," said Crittenden, pointing to his hand and arm, but not mentioning the bullet through his chest.
"Oh, but I'm glad. I thought you were gone sure when I saw you laid out on the hill."
"Oh, I am all right," he said, and his manner was as courteous as though he had been in a drawing-room; but, in spite of his nonchalance, Grafton saw him stagger when he moved off.
"I say, you oughtn't to be walking," he called. "Let me help you," but Crittenden waved him off.