n't wait any longer, and
then I will cry _chy-ike_ till the Frenchies come and pick me up. But,
I say, they won't stick a bayonet through me, will they?"

"What, through a wounded boy!" said Pen angrily. "No, they are not so
bad as that."

"Thank ye! I like that, private. I have often wished I was a man; but
now I'm lying here, with a hole in my back, I'm rather glad that I am
only a boy. Now then, catch hold of my water-bottle. It will soon be
dark enough for you to get down to the river; and you mustn't lose any
time. Oh, there's one thing more, though. You had better take my
bugle; we mustn't let the enemy have that. I think as much of my bugle
as Bony's chaps do of their eagles. You will take care of it, won't
you?"

"Yes, when I carry it," said Pen quietly.

"Well, you are going to carry it now, aren't you?"

"No," said Pen quietly.

"Oh, you mean, not till you have fetched the water?"

Pen shook his head.

"What do you mean, then?"

"To do my duty, boy."

"Of course you do; but don't be so jolly fond of calling me boy. You
said yourself a little while ago that you weren't much older than I am.
But, I say, you had better go now; and I suppose I oughtn't to talk, for
it makes my head turn swimmy, and we are wasting time; and--oh, Gray,"
the boy groaned, "I--I can't help it. I never felt so bad as this.
There, do go now. Get the water, and if I am asleep when you come back,
don't wake me so that I feel the pain again. But--but--shake hands
first, and say good-bye."

The boy uttered a faint cry of agony as he tried to stretch out his
hand, which only sank down helplessly by his side.

"Well, good-bye," he panted, as Pen's dropped slowly upon the quivering
limb. "Well, why don't you go?"

"Because it isn't time yet," said Pen meaningly, as after a glance round
he drew some of the overhanging twigs of the nearest shrub closer
together, and then passed his hand across the boy's forehead, and
afterwards held his wrist.

"Thank you, doctor," said the boy, smiling. "That seems to have done me
good. Now then, aren't you going?"

"No," said Pen, with a sigh.

"I say--why?"

"You know as well as I do," replied Pen.

"You mean that you won't go and leave me here alone? That's what you
mean."

"Yes, Punch; you are quite right. But look here. Suppose I was lying
here wounded, would you go off and leave me at night on this cold
mountain-side, knowing how those brutes of wolves hang ab