“But, of course, he would go,” the girl said with a proud little smile, at which Captain Neil's self-control quite gave way, and he could only look at her piteously through his tears.
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said gently. “Can't you go on? I want to hear so much every bit, but if you can't—”
At which, Captain Neil gripped himself hard and went on, “and so he went out, and they searched the trench from end to end. They found one poor chap, whose leg was badly smashed—”
“Oh, I'm so glad they found him,” whispered Phyllis.
“Then Sergeant Matthews got his wound, and the shells began to fall. They took refuge in a shell hole, and there, while covering Fatty Matthews from the breaking shrapnel, Barry got his wound.”
Captain Neil was forced to pause again in the recital of his story. After a few minutes, he told of how they carried him to his grave, and laid him in the cemetery outside the city of Albert.
“The boys were all there. There were not many of them left,” he said.
“How many?” she asked.
“Seventy only, out of five hundred and four who went over the parapet two nights before.”
“Ah, poor, gallant boys! I love them, I love them all!” said the girl, clasping her hands together.