Abandoning all thought of concealment in his desire to aid his foe Wilmshurst sprang to his feet, and supporting his useless left arm by his right doubled towards the spot where the man had dropped.
As he drew near he saw that the German's rifle had been hurled quite ten yards. The barrel was partly wrenched from the stock, and for a distance of about a foot from the muzzle the steel had been split, revealing the glittering rifling.
Taking in these details at a glance Dudley gained the side of the prostrate man. One look was sufficient to show that the Hun had been killed outright.
"Hard lines, Fritz," exclaimed Wilmshurst aloud. "I'm glad I didn't have to pot you."
Something prompted him to grasp the dead man by his shoulder and turn him over on his back. As he did so, Dudley gave vent to an involuntary ejaculation of surprise.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's von Gobendorff."
It was close on sunset when Wilmshurst, racked with pain, returned to the bivouac. Willing hands assisted him from the saddle, yet, firmly declining to submit to the attentions of the medical officer until he completed his task, the wounded subaltern made a lucid report and submitted his maps for inspection.
Next morning he was sent down to the base hospital, protesting the while that the wound was not serious enough to keep him away from his platoon just as the fun was commencing.