“You’re right, D’Orville,” said Lacquers, shaking the Major by the hand; “you’re right, though I never looked at it in that light before. I see that I have an object in life--that I have a task to perform; and I see--no, I don’t see my way quite through it; but I trust I shall have courage and patience to do the best I can. D’Orville, I feel happier than I did. I’m not much of a book-worm, and I can’t quite express what I feel; but, old fellow, you talked of exchanging, and going to India; well, I’ll go too--we’ll get appointed into the same corps--I’m good enough to be broiled in that country, at any rate--and I’ll never leave you, old boy, for you’re the best friend I ever had!” Little Blanche Kettering might have done worse than take poor, ignorant, good-looking, blundering, warm-hearted Lacquers. CHAPTER XXI HOSPITAL DOWN AMONGST THE DEAD MEN--CHARLIE’S PRESERVER--A SICK MAN’S VISIONS--MENTAL PROSTRATION--THE DYING MAN’S GUESTS--DISCHARGED WITHOUT A PENSION--LEADEN HOURS--HOW’S THE PATIENT?--“WELCOME, FRANK”--HOMEWARD BOUND We left Cousin Charlie, some chapters back, in a sufficiently unpleasant predicament. His arm broken by a bullet, a Kaffir’s assagai through his shoulder, stunned moreover by a crushing blow from the butt-end of a musket (Birmingham-made, and sold in the gross at nineteen shillings apiece), not to mention a roll of some fifty feet down an almost perpendicular ravine, the boy lay senseless, and to all appearance dead. The tide of war rolled far away from the _kloof_ that had been defended so fiercely, and won with such loss of life; and ere the young lancer had recovered his senses, an outlying band of the enemy, driven from their fastnesses far on the right, wound stealthily through this very ravine in full retreat. Fortunately they had that day got such a taste of English discipline as made them loth to improve any further acquaintance with “Brown Bess”; and although they stripped the lad from head to foot, believing him to be stone-dead, they had no time to stay and practise those horrid mutilations with which these demons signalise their triumph over a fallen foe. Not a shred of clothing, however, did they leave on the body; even his boots, the most useless articles conceivable to a Kaffir, were carried off as the spoils of war. For aught we know, to this day Charlie’s smart jacket forms the ceremonial dress of some burly chief. Very tight, and worn with long, black legs, _au naturel_, it is doubtless a most imposing costume. Be that how it may, the white man was left naked and weltering in his wounds, whilst the routed party, who had wasted but little time in stripping him, made the best of their way to a more respectful distance from the British posts. Charlie never stirred for hours. The moon rose, and bathed in her cold light the crisp, rugged scenery and the ghastly accessories of that fatal glen. Here, a stunted jagged bush threw its smoke-blackened twigs athwart