I looked over the plain. Would Asaf never return? The dusk was gathering and the wide-spread wreath of smoke mingled with it and was lost. I could see the flash of the Greek guns as they made their last stand to hold back the enemy till night came with its chance of escape. Even the near-by road had its moments of quiet and the moving figures grew blurred. Every clatter of hoofs might be Asaf coming, every rumble of wheels the ambulance. But Asaf did not come.
"Davy!"
I looked down. He was indistinct in the shadow of the rough tent. He had brought his other hand to cover mine.
"It was a good fight, wasn't it, Davy?"
"It was a grand fight," said I.
"And you'll tell them at home, Davy?"
"Yes, you and I will tell them together," I said with forced cheerfulness. "But you must be quiet till the surgeon comes."
It was growing dark. Over the plain the bark of heavy guns and the crackle of rifles had stopped. Camp-fires were lighting, a circle of them hemming in the town. Even the near-by road had grown quite quiet, like any country road where the stillness is broken by the rare clatter of hoofs or the curses of some stumbling pedestrian.
His hands were pulling at mine and I leaned down over him in the darkness. He could only whisper those last few words.
One hand slipped from mine; from the other life seemed to have gone, it was so still and listless.