As he passed a grisly pile he thought he caught a faint groan from inside it, and set to work at once hauling the dead men apart, with tightened face and repressed breath. The job was neither pleasant nor wholesome, but there was no one else near at hand and he must see to it. Right at the bottom of the pile, soaked with the blood of those who had fallen on top of him, he came upon a young fellow, an officer, just about his own age. And as he dragged the last body off him, he opened his eyes wearily and groaned. Jim put his pocket-flask to the white lips, and the other sucked eagerly and a touch of colour came into his face. He lay looking up into the face bending over him, and then his chest filled and he sighed. "Where are you hurt?" asked Jim, expecting no answer, but full of sympathy. "Leg and side," said the wounded one, in English with an accent. "I'll fetch a litter." "Stay moment. Only dead men--two days. Good to see a live one. . . . Did you win?" "Yes, we won, but at very heavy cost." "Glad you won." "That doesn't sound good," said honest Jim, with disfavour. "You would feel same. Hate Russians. . . . Pole." "I see," said Jim, whose history was nebulous, but equal to the occasion. "Forced to fight," said the wounded man. "Done with it now." "Take some more rum--it'll warm you up; and I'll find a litter for you." "Have you bread? I starve. . . ." "I'll see if I can get you something." "Open his roll." And the wounded man turned his eyes hungrily on the nearest dead body. And Jim, opening the linen roll which each Russian carried, found a lump of hard black bread and placed it in his hand. "I thank. You will come again?" asked the young Pole anxiously. "I'll come back all right, as soon as I've found a litter." And he left the wounded man feebly gnawing his chunk of black bread like a starving dog. He found a litter in time, and the weary eyes brightened a trifle at sight of him. "You are good," he murmured. "You save me." And Jim, thinking what he would like himself in similar case, went along by his side till they found a doctor resting for a moment, and begged him to examine the new-comer. "His leg must go. The body wound will heal," said the medico. "Seems to have had a bad time. Where did you find him?" "I found him under fifteen dead men." "Then he owes you his life." "Yes, yes," said the wounded one "I am grateful. Take the leg off." "He's a Pole, forced to fight against his will," said Jim, at the doctor's astonishment. "I see"--as he screwed a tourniquet on the shattered limb. "We're sending all their wounded to Odessa." At which the young man groaned. "Hold his hand," said the doctor. "He's pretty low." And Jim held the twitching hand while the knife and the saw did their work, and was not sure whether it was his hand that jumped so or the other's. The other hand suddenly lay limp in his, and he thought the man was dead. "Fainted," said the doctor. "He's been bleeding away for two days."