"He's livin', he's livin'. God be thanked!" mumbled the faithful Irishman as he crossed himself. Bending near, he pulled the listless form from under the dead weight of the men above. Claud groaned.
"That's a good sign, Paddy, eh?"
"Sure, an' he'll drink a glass wid us yet! But, Heavens! what a hole!" exclaimed the Irishman, looking at the gaping wound in Claud's shoulder.
"Get his dressing out," said Bill.
Paddy made to rip the dressing out of Claud's jacket. Alas! man proposes and the Turk disposes. A sniper's rifle pinged, and a bullet hit Paddy in the arm. It fell, shattered and useless.
"Back, Paddy—into the trenches for your life. I'll carry Claud."
The brave Irishman, realising he was now useless, reluctantly obeyed. Bill then heaved Claud over his shoulder and followed hard.
Bang! Bang! Bang! went the Turkish rifles. Claud was hit in the hand, and poor Bill struck in the leg and back; then he fell exhausted into the trench, the wounded Claud on top.
"Bravo! Buster—you're a white man, anyway," said the Colonel.
"A done man, Colonel," said Bill with a wan smile as he fainted away. His wounds and Claud's wounds were bound with the Colonel's own hand. Then commenced the weary procession through trench after trench to the hospital below. They were but two in a cavalcade of thousands. They passed from the zones of dead into the camp of tears and moaning. Men shattered and dying were there; others, more fortunate, wetted their lips and eased their way to God.