He gazed at it with a softening face, and then slipped it into his pocket.
"He was a good comrade.

A man with long patience, and I think he had a good deal to bear from me," he said.
In the meanwhile Weston stood still, with the rain on his face and his battered hat in his hand.

Verneille lay in a cleft of the rocks, where it seemed he had crawled when he broke down on his last weary march, but the sun and the rain had worked their will, and there was very little left of him.

Indeed, part of the bony structure had rolled clear of the shreds of tattered rags.

Grenfell gazed at him fixedly, and neither of the men said anything for the next minute or two.