Henry's leg was
broken; he could not move. Here was, indeed, an anxious dilemma.
"We must carry him, of course," said the surgeon. "You are the best man
of us three, Henderson; we'll hoist him on your back."
To stagger along such a path, bearing a heavy burden, was well-nigh
impossible, even for the stalwart soldier. Dark faces might have been
seen looking over the ridge, had they glanced upwards. They knew of the
presence of these foes by the falling of the rocks about their ears. The
peril of the situation demoralised the second soldier; he picked up his
rifle, which he had laid on the ground while he helped the surgeon to
lift Henry upon Henderson's back, and ran.
"Oh, Doctor dear, he's too weighty for me," groaned Henderson. "I canna
carry him anither foot o' the way; sure, sure he's the biggest man in
the regiment."
"Lay me down, Henderson, and save yourself; why should I sacrifice
_you_?" groaned the wounded man.
"I'll take him from you, man; quick, quick, help me to get him on my
back."
"Why, Doctor, he's a bigger man nor you," said Henderson in his Ulster
dialect.
"No matter. I'll carry him or die! He has fainted. He is a dead weight
now--but we leave this road together, or we stay here together.
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