“What makes you look at that carrion so confoundedly straight and scared,” one of the soldiers asked Peter, sharply, noticing how often his eyes went to the figure at his feet.
Peter cursed himself inwardly, but he had been so afraid that the blanket would rise and fall with a strong man’s involuntary breathing that he had watched it in a sort of fascination. Now he looked away, answering slowly:—
“I have known him since he was a baby; he used to play with my little boy that died, and so I keep thinking of those days.”
One of the men laughed scoutingly, but the other growled out, “Let the fool have his fling, and give me a light, Carson; my pipe’s gone out in this cursed spray.” And while their heads were close together, Peter stretched his legs out over the body, that if so it lost for a moment its rigidity, they might not see.
It seemed to him an hour before the shore was reached and the landing effected; then he and his assistant carried the bodies high up on the sand. Richard’s went first.
“He is alive,” Peter whispered, as they moved up the beach, “but if you give the faintest hint of it here or on shipboard by word, act, or look, I’ll throttle you like a viper.”
“You need not threaten—I’m no peacher; and besides, I liked the lad, and wish him well; but his chance is slim, and if he is taken, they will torture him like the incarnate fiends.”
An officer from the patrol, strolling near the boat, called out:—
“How many to-day, Carson?”
“Three.”