It was helping him as Lionel was helping him to get through things. What he had to get through was dying. It was going to be quicker than the way they had of dying in Davos, but it mightn't be quick enough; it might drive him out of his last fight, back to an inconceivable stale world.
This must not happen. Lionel must live and he must die, where he was. You could bully fate, if you were prepared to pay the price for it.
Winn was not sure yet what the price would be, he was only sure that he was prepared to pay it.
They were to be relieved next day. The men were so worn out that they could hardly move. Winn and Lionel found their own bodies difficult to control; they had become heavy and inert from want of sleep, but their minds were alive and worked with feverish swiftness, like the minds of people in a long illness, when consciousness creeps above the level of pain.
Winn had just returned from his evening round of the trenches. Lionel was resting in his dug-out; he heard Winn's approach. Winn was coughing again—a little choking, short cough.
He bent double and crouched down beside Lionel without speaking.
"Well," said Lionel, "to-morrow we'll be out of this. About time too—with that cough of yours."
Winn was silent for a moment, then he said, "I suppose you know I'm nearly done?"
Lionel bowed his head. "Yes," he muttered, "I suppose I know it."
After a pause Winn began again.