"Arx the young lidy," suggested 'Erb, and with one consent they went to the bar, leaning on which Carmelita was sobbing painfully. The strain and agony of the last twenty-four hours had been too much and she had broken down. As they passed the two silent bodies, 'Erb stopped and bent over Sergeant Legros, remarking: "Knows 'ow ter lie doggo, don't 'e--the ol' cunnin'-chops?" He fell silent a moment, and then in a very different voice ejaculated, "Gawds-treuth 'e's mort, 'e is. 'E's tué."
John Bull and Reginald Rupert looked at each other, and then turned back quietly to where the Sergeant was lying.
"Cerebral hemorrhage," suggested John Bull. "I struck him on the side of the head."
"'Eart failure," suggested 'Erb. "I set on 'is 'ead till 'is 'eart stopped, blimey!"
"Apple Plexy, I opine," put in the Bucking Bronco. "All comes o' gittin' excited, don't it?"
"He certainly made himself perfectly miserable when I took his bayonet away," admitted Legionary Rupert.
"Anyhow, it's a fair swingin' job nah, wotever it was afore," said 'Erb. Whatever the cause and whosesoever the hand, Sergeant Legros was undoubtedly dead. They removed the belts, straightened his limbs, closed his eyes and 'Erb placed the dead man's képi over the face, bursting as he did so into semi-hysterical song--
"Ours is a 'appy little 'ome,
I wisht I was a kipper on the foam,
There's no carpet on the door,
There's no knocker on the floor,
Oo! Ours is a 'appy little 'ome."
"Shut that damned row," said Legionary Rupert.
"Carmelita, honey," said the Bucking Bronco, stroking the hair of the weeping girl. "Yew got the brains. Wot'll we do? Shall we stop an' look arter ye? Will yew come on pump with us? Will yew ketch the nine-fifteen ter Oran? Yew could light out fer the railroad de-pot right now--or will yew stick it out here, an' see ef they takes away yure licence? They couldn't do nuthin' more.... Give it a name, little gal--we've gotter hike quick, ef we ain't a-goin' ter stay."