"Nonsense; you've only just come. Sit down, man; you won't hurt me. Do me good.--That's right. I want to ask you something." "No, no; you'd better not talk." "What nonsense! I'm beginning to suffer now from what fine people call _ennui_. Not much in my way, old fellow. You're doing me good. I say, look here. Something has been bothering me like in my dreams. You say I did go in to see poor Roby?" "Yes; but look here, Drew, old man," cried Dickenson, "if you get on that topic I must go." "No, no; stay. I want to separate the fancy from the real. I've got an idea in my head that Roby turned upon me in a fit of raving, and called me a coward and a cur for running away and leaving him. Did I dream that?" "No," said Dickenson huskily. "He has been a good deal off his head. He did shout something of that sort at you." "Poor fellow!" said Lennox quietly. "But how horrible! Shot in the forehead, wasn't he?" "Bullet ploughed open the top of his head." "I didn't see what was wrong with him in the rush. I can remember now, quite clearly, seeing him go down, with his face streaming with blood." "You recollect that?" said Dickenson excitedly, in spite of himself. "Oh yes. The light was coming fast, and we were near where a lot of the Boers were making for their mounts to get them away. One big fellow was leading his pony, and as poor Roby was straggling blindly about, this Boer ran at him, holding his rein in one hand, his rifle in the other, and I saw him shorten it with his right to turn it into a club to bring it down on Roby's head." "All!" cried Dickenson, with increasing excitement, and he waited by Lennox, who ceased speaking, and lay gazing calmly at the door. Then all the doctor's warnings were forgotten, and the visitor said hoarsely, "Well, go on. Why don't you speak?" "Oh, I don't want to begin blowing about what I did," said Lennox quietly. "But I want to hear," said Dickenson. "Go on--the Boer raised his rifle to bash it down on Roby's head. What then?" "Well, he didn't. I was obliged to cut him down. Then the pony jerked itself free and galloped off." "And you ran to catch it?" cried Dickenson excitedly. "Nonsense!" said Lennox, laughing. "Why should I do that? What did I want with the pony, unless it might have been to get poor Roby across its back? But I never thought of it. I only thought of getting him on mine." "And did you?" cried Dickenson. "Of course I did. I wanted to carry him to the rear, poor fellow." "Ha!" ejaculated Dickenson. "Well, don't shout. What an excitable beggar you are?" "Go on, then. You keep giving it to me in little bits. What then?" "Oh, I got him on my back, and it was horrible His wound bled so." "But you carried him?" "Yes, ever so far; till that happened." "Yes! What?" Lennox touched his neck, and his hearer literally ground his teeth in rage. "Will--you--speak out?" he cried.