They were numbering the corpses, halting now and again to turn one over and hold a light to his face, then to his badge.

Half-way down, between them and me, a stink-pot yet smouldered, and the morning air carried a horrible smell of singed flesh.
As the dawn widened, one of the men opened his lantern and blew out the candle within it.

The young officer--it was Archibald Plinlimmon--paused in his search and scanned the sky and the ramparts above.

I sent down a feeble hail.
He heard.

His eyes searched along the heaped ruins of gabions, fascines, and dead bodies; and, recognising me, he came slowly up the slope.
"Hallo!" said he.