ly wounded, perhaps dying, or even
dead.

A man approached, and in the darkness stumbled over one of the
slumberers.

"Now, then, where are you coming to?"

"Dunno--wish I did. D'you men belong to the Blankshire? Where's your
officer?"

"Can't say. Wait a minute; that's he lying by that bit of
bush--Captain Hamling."

Our hero raised himself into a sitting posture. He had recognized the
new-comer as a hospital orderly, and in the surrounding stillness heard
him deliver his message:--

"Surgeon Gaylard sends his compliments, and would you allow one of your
men named Fenleigh to come and see an officer who's badly wounded?
He's some relative I think, sir."

"Very good," answered the captain drowsily; "you can find him yourself."

The orderly had no difficulty in doing that, for in a moment Jack was
at his side.

"Is he dying?"

"Dunno; he's badly hurt--shot through the lungs, and he's asked for you
several times."

It was a cruel night for the wounded, with nothing to shelter them from
the bitter cold. Valentine lay upon the ground, with his head propped
up against a saddle. The surgeon was stooping over him as the two men
approached, and the light of his lamp tell on the pale, pinched
features of the sufferer. Within the last three days Jack had seen
scores of men hurried into eternity, and his senses had become hardened
by constant association with bloodshed and violent death, yet the sight
of those unmistakable lines on that one familiar face turned his heart
to stone.

"You're some relative, I believe. He seemed very anxious to see you,
so I sent the orderly. What?-- Yes, you may stay with him if you
like; but keep quiet, and don't let him talk more than you can help."

"Is--is he dying, sir?"

"He may live till morning, but I doubt if he will."

Jack went down on his knees. There was no "sir" this time--sword, and
sash, and shoulder-strap were all forgotten.

"Val!" The great, grey eyes, already heavy with the sleep of death,
opened wide.

"Jack! my dear Jack!"

"Yes; I've come to look after you. Are you in much pain?"

"No--only when I cough--and--it's dreadfully cold."

The listener stifled down a groan. Ah, dear thoughts of long ago!
Such things had never happened on the mimic battlefields at Brenlands.
This, then, was the reality.

"Jack, I want you to promise me something--your word of honour to a
dying man."

A fit of coughing, ending in a groan of agony, interrupte