CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
REALITIES OF WAR.
I glanced round at the little group of men, every face wearing the same serious aspect; then I lowered my eyes to continue my task of trying to restore Denham to his senses, while the moments glided by, and many shots were fired at our position; yet there was no change in the officer's condition.
"He isn't dead--is he ?" said one of the troopers.

"Dead?
No!" I cried angrily; but even as I spoke a chill of horror ran through me, for the utterly inanimate state of my new friend suggested that the shock of the blow might have been fatal.
"But he doesn't seem to have a spark of life in him, poor chap!" "He'll recover soon," I said as firmly as I could, and determined to put the best face upon the matter.
"But we can't wait for `soon,'" cried another man impatiently.

"In less than a quarter of an hour the Doppers will be down upon us, and then it's either a bullet apiece or prisoners." "We must carry him down to where the Colonel is with the rest of the troopers," I said.

"No, no.

Set him on a horse." "He can't possibly sit a horse," I said firmly; "and if you put him on one it will take two men to keep him in his place." "We can't spare them," cried the first man who had spoken.