if
they charge home, as you call it, and find that we haven't got a shot, I
want to know what we are going to do then."

"I don't feel as if it matters now," said Pen despondently.

"Oh, don't you! But I do, comrade. It's bad enough to be wounded and a
prisoner; that's all in the regular work; but these Frenchies must be
horribly wild now, and when we can't help ourselves it seems to me that
we sha'n't be safe. You are tired, and your wound bothers you, and no
wonder. It's that makes you talk so grumpy. But it seems to me as if
it does matter. Course soldiers have to take their chance, even if they
are only buglers, and I took mine, and got it. Now my wound's better, I
don't feel like giving up. I feel as if I hadn't half had my innings.
I haven't even got to be what you are--full private. But, I say, it
ain't getting dark yet, is it?"

"No, Punch. But I feel so giddy I can hardly see."

"Look out, then!" cried the boy excitedly. "Here they come; and you are
all wrong."

For the boy had caught sight of another rush being made, with the enemy
scattered wildly; and catching up his musket, Punch fired, while it was
as if mechanically and hardly knowing what he was about that Pen raised
his piece and followed his companion's example.

What ensued seemed to be part of a nightmare-like dream, during which
Pen once more followed his comrade's example; and, grasping his musket
by the heated barrel he clubbed it and struck out wildly for a few
minutes before he felt that he was borne down, trampled upon, and then
lay half-conscious of what was going on.

He was in no pain, but felt as if he were listening to something that
was taking place at a distance. There were defiant shouts, there was
the rushing of feet, there was firing. Orders were being given in
French; but what it all meant he could not grasp, till all at once it
seemed to him that it was very dark, and a hot, wet hand was laid upon
his forehead.

Then a voice came--a familiar voice; but this too seemed to be from far
away, and it did not seem natural that he should be feeling the touch
upon his forehead while the voice came from a distance.

"I say, they haven't done for you, have they, comrade? Oh, do try to
speak. Tell me where it hurts."

"Hurts! That you, Punch?"

"Course it is. Hooray! Where's your wound? Speak up, or I can't make
it out in all this row. Where have you got it?"

"Got what?"

"Why, I telled you. The wound."