Of my own accord, I fumbled in his pocket, took his letter-case and held it out to him. He half-opened his eyes again, and raised himself. His lips moved. His eyelashes fluttered. He took a breath and fell back. I did not know whether he was dead, or had only fainted.
Another shell burst just by. Something struck my cheek. I put my hand up. There was blood on it. But it was only a fir-cone which had been flung down.
I turned towards Henriot again. Our men were scattered in the distance. It was impossible to call any one back, and equally impossible to carry him without help. He and I were alone, face to face. What was it he had wished to confide in me? This incomplete scene was becoming tragically mysterious.
"Good-bye, good-bye," I murmured, perhaps to a dead man.
I took the letter case with me, and stumbling beneath the weight of my pack, plunged into the thicket in pursuit of my companions.
I did not catch them up until I got to the other side of the wood. Guillaumin was looking out for me!
"What's become of Henriot?"
"Gone west, I think. A 'Jack Johnson.'"