"What's that? Yes, it's our captain," said the other, "and he's waitin' to hear if you're alive. If you're sound below the teeth we can give you an arm apiece and take you to him in ten minutes. He's on'y in one o' the Second Division tents." Denis could ask no questions, but he had strength enough to act upon this suggestion, and in a few minutes he was among the lighted tents. They put him vividly in mind of his first night at Ballarat. That was the last time he had spoken to Ralph Devenish until the morning of this dreadful day. Now Ralph was lying in a military tent, a candle and a tumbler of champagne on the service trunk at his elbow, and an army surgeon on a camp-stool beside the bed. "Is that the man you want to see?" asked the surgeon, but bundled Denis from the tent next instant, and made his conductors hold both lanterns to his face. "Don't you try to speak!" he went on to Denis. "Your wound has practically frozen; and we must keep it so as long as we can. Hold this wad to it till you come out. I oughtn't to let you go in--but he's worse than you." The caution was repeated to Ralph; then Denis took the camp-stool, and the two were left alone. "I am glad to have seen you again," murmured Ralph in hollow tones. "Do you know when I saw you last? I never thought of it till this moment. It was on the far side of the battery. Some fellow was going to bayonet you where you lay, and I--I was just in time." Denis was nodding violently. He also had remembered. He stretched out a trembling hand. But Ralph drew his beneath the blanket. "Wait a bit," he whispered. "You see, I never thought of its being you; but I'm rather glad it was. Badly hurt, I'm afraid?" Denis shook his head. "I am. Lungs. I'm afraid it's a case. Do you remember this early morning?" The disfigured face made a ghastly protest. Devenish only smiled. "It was a good sort of duel," he whispered. "And you see, you've won!" He stretched out a deathly hand for the champagne. Denis reached it for him. The surgeon stood in the opening of the tent, advanced a step, shrugged, and retired unseen. Ralph had not hidden his hand again. Denis held it in both of his. "Ask her to forgive me," gasped the shallow whisper. "No.... I can't ask you.... I don't. But you might tell her--when it came to this sort of thing----" And the deathly face lit up with such a smile as it had worn that morning, when Ralph Devenish waved his sword, and led his company to the succour of their comrades before the Sandbag Battery. CHAPTER XXXI TIME'S WHIRLIGIG