he asked. “By God, they’ll never get their artillery through here. Mark it, all the same,” he added indifferently, and seated himself beside me, dropping his rifle across his knees with a gesture of weariness.
“Are you tired?” I asked.
He looked up at me with a wan smile.
“Weary of myself, Loskiel, and of a life lived too lightly and now nigh ended.”
“Nigh ended!” I repeated.
“I go not back again,” he said, sombrely.
I glanced sharply at him, where he sat brooding over his rifle; and there was in his face an expression such as I had never before seen there — something unnatural