alley sounded
strangely, but I could not call him Mr. Blight when he lay this way,
looking up at me with eyes that seemed to smile with contentment
despite his pain.

"You will be all right, Professor, but you must lie here quietly till
the surgeon comes."

"I will be all right," he repeated slowly, and closed his eyes.

I looked over the plain. Would Asaf never return? The dusk was
gathering and the wide-spread wreath of smoke mingled with it and was
lost. I could see the flash of the Greek guns as they made their last
stand to hold back the enemy till night came with its chance of escape.
Even the near-by road had its moments of quiet and the moving figures
grew blurred. Every clatter of hoofs might be Asaf coming, every
rumble of wheels the ambulance. But Asaf did not come.

"Davy!"

I looked down. He was indistinct in the shadow of the rough tent. He
had brought his other hand to cover mine.

"It was a good fight, wasn't it, Davy?"

"It was a grand fight," said I.

"And you'll tell them at home, Davy?"

"Yes, you and I will tell them together," I said with forced
cheerfulness. "But you must be quiet till the surgeon comes."

It was growing dark. Over the plain the bark of heavy guns and the
crackle of rifles had stopped. Camp-fires were lighting, a circle of
them hemming in the town. Even the near-by road had grown quite quiet,
like any country road where the stillness is broken by the rare clatter
of hoofs or the curses of some stumbling pedestrian.

His hands were pulling at mine and I leaned down over him in the
darkness. He could only whisper those last few words.

One hand slipped from mine; from the other life seemed to have gone, it
was so still and listless.

I leaned so close over the dark form that my face touched his. I knew
that he was going from me, and I wanted to hold him back. It was so
terrible for him to die this way, in this lonely field with no wise
hand to help him. My useless hands would have shaken him to arouse his
life again, but I stayed them.

I knew that it was futile to speak, that my voice was falling on dulled
ears, but what else could I do to stir him to fight for life?

"I'll tell them--we will tell them together," I cried. "We will go
home to Penelope, you and I, and they shall know how you fought. And
they will be proud of you, Professor; I know they will. And how glad
they will be to see you--how glad Penelope will be! Can't you hear me?"

I