(1) On the Field.
A pitch-black night in a rocky valley of Afghanistan: a few stars in the heavy, black, moonless sky only intensifying the almost palpable darkness. A mile or two southwards, where the rocky valley swelled into rocky heights, little flashes of light recurring at intervals, followed by sharp little cracks, showed where the late skirmish and retreat was fighting itself out round about the camp.
Where one of the innumerable broken ridges that seamed the valley made a darker wall across the darkness, two figures were dimly discernible (when you knew where to look for them), the one semi-recumbent, propped against a boulder, the other tall and straight beside him.
"Clear out, Warrington—please go, sir," the voice came faintly from the recumbent figure. "You can get back to camp and send 'em out for me."
"Not likely, young 'un," observed the other. "What says the great R.K.:
"'When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan plains,
And the women come out—to cut up what remains—
Just——'"
"HE EMPTIED HIS REVOLVER INTO THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT."
"Don't!" said the wounded man, and almost succeeded in stopping a groan between his clenched teeth.
"Poor old Vicary," said Warrington, bending over him. "Let me undo your belt.... Now grab yourself with both hands."