And Desmond had but two words for answer, sharp and anxious.
"The Boy?"
"We've lost Denvil," Buchanan growled between his teeth. "And we could very ill spare him."
Desmond closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Speech was beyond him. His mind, dizzy with pain and loss of blood, refused to grasp the truth. Two hours ago the Boy had been radiantly, vigorously alive. It was rank foolishness to expect a man to believe that he would never hear him speak or laugh again.
He was roused by Buchanan's hand on his arm.
"Look here, Desmond," he said, "we must be moving again now. I merely came to see how things were going with you before pushing on."
"Thank you, Colonel. I'm in the rear for the present, I suppose?" And he tried to smile.
"Not exactly. As we are within two days' march of the station and there's little left to do but sweep up the rubbish, I have told off a strong escort to return to Kohat with the wounded men,—Denvil, and yourself. You've been badly knocked about, and you need careful seeing to at once."
"Won't you leave me out of the programme, sir? You know I'm hard as nails; I'm sure I could manage to hang on to the saddle, and be fit for light duty in a few days' time. Give me the chance, anyway. I'll do my level best."