“If they would send us a doctor!” muttered the cure, in his own language, longingly. “Ma joi, what a lad!” He looked down in admiration at the splendid helpless body.
“He won’t die, Father, will he?”
“I do not know, my son. I can find no wound, except the one on his head—nothing seems broken. Perhaps he will be better to-morrow.” He gave the little Irishman his blessing and moved away. There were many eager eyes awaiting him.
Jim was restless during the night; Denny Callaghan, himself unable to sleep, watched him muttering and trying to turn, but unable to move.
“I doubt but his back’s broken,” said the little man ruefully. “Yerra, what a pity!” He tried to soothe the boy with kind words; and towards the dawn Jim slept heavily.
He woke when the sun was shining upon him through a rift in the wall. The church was full of smothered sounds—stifled groans from helpless men, stiffened by lying still, and trying to move. Jim managed to raise himself a little, at which Denny Callaghan gave an exclamation of relief.
“Hurroo! Are you better, sir?”
“Where am I?” Jim asked thickly.
“’Tis in a church you are, sir, though it’s not much like it,” said the little man. “The Germans call it a hospital. ’Tis all I wish they may have the like themselves, and they wounded. Are you better, sir?”
“I . . . think I’m all right,” Jim said. He was trying to regain his scattered faculties. “So they’ve got me!” He tried to look at Callaghan. “What’s your regiment?”