I don't even call you a man." The Sergeant's flow of indignation sounded much poorer at the end than at the beginning; and, his words failing now, I had a chance to get in a few.
"That's enough, Sergeant," I said.

"You forget he's a wounded man and a prisoner." "Not half enough, Mr Moray," cried the Sergeant.

"I'm not one of your sort, full of fine feelings; only a plain, straightforward soldier." "And a brave man," I said, "who cannot trample on a fallen enemy." Sergeant Briggs gave his slouch felt hat a thrust on one side, while he angrily tore at his grizzled shock of closely-cut hair: it was too fierce to be called a scratch.
"All right," he said--"all right; but the sight of him trying to get out a pistol to hold at the head of him as--as--" "Be quiet, Sergeant," I said, smiling in spite of myself.

"Look: the poor fellow's turning faint.

Let's get him to the camp.