Philip and his companion were about midway, when suddenly a young woman with a child in her arms forced herself through the people, between the soldiers who kept pressing on either side, and threw herself on the neck of Philip's friend.
'Oh, Jem!' she sobbed, 'I've walked all the road from Potterne.

I've never stopped but for food and rest for Nelly, and now I've got you once again, I've got you once again, bless God for it!' She did not seem to see the deadly change that had come over her husband since she parted with him a ruddy young labourer; she had got him once again, as she phrased it, and that was enough for her; she kissed his face, his hands, his very coat, nor would she be repulsed from walking beside him and holding his hand, while her little girl ran along scared by the voices and the strange faces, and clinging to her mammy's gown.
Jem coughed, poor fellow! he coughed his churchyard cough; and Philip bitterly envied him--envied his life, envied his approaching death; for was he not wrapped round with that woman's tender love, and is not such love stronger than death?
Philip had felt as if his own heart was grown numb, and as though it had changed to a cold heavy stone.

But at the contrast of this man's lot to his own, he felt that he had yet the power of suffering left to him.
The road they had to go was full of people, kept off in some measure by the guard of soldiers.

All sorts of kindly speeches, and many a curious question, were addressed to the poor invalids as they walked along.

Philip's jaw, and the lower part of his face, were bandaged up; his cap was slouched down; he held his cloak about him, and shivered within its folds.
They came to a standstill from some slight obstacle at the corner of a street.