against rock.  A bullet struck the handle of Aladdin’s sword and broke it.  He unstopped his canteen and pressed the nozzle to Manners’ lips.  Manners sucked eagerly, like an infant at its mother’s breast.  A bullet struck the canteen and dashed it to pieces.  The crashing of the cannon was like close thunder, and the air sang like the strings of an instrument.  But Aladdin, so cool and collected he was, might have been the target for praises and roses flung by beauties.  He put his lips close to Peter’s ear, and spoke loudly, for the noise of battle was deafening.

“Is it much, darlint?”

Manners turned his bleeding eyes toward Aladdin.

“Go back, you damn little fool!” he said.

“Peter, Peter,” said Aladdin, “can’t you see?”

“No, I can’t.  I’m no use now.  Go back; go back and give ’em hell!”

Aladdin endeavored to raise Peter in his arms, but was not strong enough.

“I can’t lift you, I can’t lift you,” he said.

“You can’t,” said Peter.  “Bless you for coming, and go back.”

“Shut up, will you?” cried Aladdin, savagely.  “Where are you hit?”

“In the back,” said Peter, “and I’m done for.”

“The hell you are!” said Aladdin.  Tears hotter than blood were running out of his eyes.  “What can I do for you, Peter?” he said in a husky voice.

Manners’ blackened fingers fumbled at the buttons of his coat, but he had not the strength to undo them.

“It’s there, ’Laddin,” he said.

“What’s there?” said Aladdin.  He undid the coat with swift, clever fingers.

“Let me hold it in my hands,” said Peter.

“Is it this—­this letter—­this letter from Margaret?” asked Aladdin, chokingly, for he saw that the letter had not been opened.

A shower of dirt and stones fell upon them, and a shell burst with a sharp crash above their heads.

“Yes,” said Peter.  “Give it to me.  I can’t ever read it now.”

“I can read it for you,” said Aladdin.  He was struggling with a sob that wanted to tear his throat.

“Will you?  Will you?” cried Peter, and he smiled like a beautiful child.

“Sure I will,” said Aladdin.

With the palm of his hand he pressed back the streaming sweat from his forehead twice and three times.  Then, having wiped his hands upon his knees, he drew the battered fragment of his sword, and using it as a paper-knife, opened the letter carefully, as a man opens letters which are not to be destroyed.  Then his stomach turned cold and his tongue grew thick and burred.  For the letter which Margaret had written to her lover was more cruel than the shell which had blinded his eyes and the bullet which was taking his life.

“’Laddin—­” this in a fearful voice.

“Yes.”

“Thank God.  I thought you’d been hit.  Why don’t you read?”