He struck me as ill-favoured enough--not to say ghastly--with the dust and blood on his face (for a splinter had laid open his cheek), and its complexion an unhealthy white against his matted hair.

I took note that he wore sergeant's stripes.
"What's the poor thing called ?" someone inquired of the sentry.
The sentry, being an Irishman, mistook the idiom.

"He's called a Bull," said he, stroking the barrel of his rifle.

"H'what the divvle else ?" "But 'tis the man we mean." "Oh, _he's_ called Letcher; sergeant; North Wilts." Letcher gulped down a mouthful of water and managed to sit up, pushing the butcher's arm aside.
"Where's Plinlimmon ?" he asked hoarsely.

"Hurt ?" "Here I am, old fellow," answered Archibald, reeling rather than stepping forward.