But Bellairs did not hear the rest.
A bugle rang out into the night. The gunners stood by their horses. Even the sentries, posted outside the rampart to guard against alarm, stood to attention, and Colonel Carter, wincing from the pain in his right arm, walked out in front of where the men were lined up.
Captain O'Rourke walked up and saluted him.
“I've arranged to bury them in that trench we dug this evening, sir, when the trouble started. It's not very deep, but it holds them all. I've laid them in it.”
“Are you sure they're all dead?”
“I've burnt their fingers with matches, sir. I don't know of any better way to make sure.”
“Very well. Can you remember any of the burial service?”
“'Fraid not, sir.”
“Um! That's a pity. And I'm afraid I can't spare the time. Take a firing-party, Captain O'Rourke, and give them the last honors, at all events.”
A party marched away toward the trench, and several minutes later O'Rourke's voice was heard calling through the darkness, “All ready, sir!”