"You don't mean that they fired at us?"
"No, they fired—all right—but——" his voice became weaker, and he seemed satisfied not to finish. The doctor made Charteris a sign not to disturb him further, and he was obliged to give the Granthis the benefit of the doubt.
* * * * * *
An attack of fever, complicated by his wounds, kept Gerrard from all rational conversation for some time, but when he recovered his senses, he thought that it was still the night of the battle. On the roof of the tent brooded the gigantic shadow of Charteris in his shirt-sleeves, writing busily by the usual light of a candle-end stuck into the neck of a bottle.
"Bob!" said Gerrard weakly. Charteris was at his side in a moment.
"Want anything, old boy? By Jove, I'm uncommon glad to hear your voice again—talking sensibly, that is.
"But it's only a few hours since you brought me in here."
"A few fiddlesticks! My dear fellow, it's three weeks."
"Bob, have they sent us the siege artillery?"
"No, and they won't. Guns are too precious to move without escort, and British troops are too expensive to cart about in the rains. So here we are, twiddling our thumbs till better times come."