CHAPTER VIII.


'I'm glad you done it quick,' said Corporal Sam.

His voice was weak, yet he managed to get out the words firmly,
leaning back in the wooden armchair, with one hand on his left
breast, spread and covering the lower ribs.

The sergeant did not answer at once. Between the spread fingers he
saw a thin stream welling, darker than the scarlet tunic which it
discoloured. For perhaps three seconds he watched it. To him the
time seemed as many minutes, and all the while he was aware of the
rifle-barrel warm in his grasp.

'Because,' Corporal Sam pursued with a smile that wavered a little,
half wistfully seeking his eyes, 'you'd 'a had to do it, anyway--
wouldn't you? And any other way it--might--'a been hard.'

'Lad, what _made_ you?'

It was all Sergeant Wilkes could say, and he said it, wondering at
the sound of his own voice. The child, who, seeing that the two were
friends and not, after all, disposed to murder one another, had
wandered to the head of the stairs to look down into the sunlit
garden shining below, seemed to guess that something was amiss after
all, and, wandering back, stood at a little distance, finger to lip.

'I don't know,' the corporal answered, like a man with difficulty
trying to collect his thoughts. 'Leastways, not to explain to you.