The pain made me writhe and moan, my face beaded with perspiration.

A wounded man lifted his arm from out a tangled heap of dead, and fired a revolver up into the ceiling; I saw the bullet tear through the plaster, and the hand sink back nerveless, the fingers dropping the weapon.

The sounds of battle were dying away to the eastward; I could distinguish the volleys of musketry from the roar of the big guns.

I worked my head about, little by little, until I was able to see the face of the man lying across me.
It was ghastly white, except where blood discolored his cheek, and I stared without recognition.

Then I knew he must be Miles.