The first thing Dick did on retiring to his quarters that night was to take his sword out of its case and admire its appearance once more. The next, to draw it and hold it close to the lamp, about which the night-moths were buzzing and a mosquito was sounding its miniature cheerful horn.

The brightly-burnished blade flashed in the soft, mellow light, and Dick thought it was very beautiful; but now, for the first time, it struck him that it was shockingly blunt.

He was devoted to his profession, and proud of being a soldier, but he had never had a bloodthirsty thought. But now a fresh train of ideas had been started by the old sergeant’s words. That beautiful, specklessly-bright blade, with its damascening, was meant to cut; and it was perfectly plain that, though it might have divided a pear or a pumpkin with a very vigorous blow, it would not cut it; while, as to the result of a thrust with the point, its effect would have been almost nil.

The idea seemed rather horrible—that of cutting flesh, or running an enemy through; but Dick felt that it was too late to think about such things as that. He was a soldier, and he had his duty to do.

And besides, in all the sword-exercise and fencing, he had been most carefully taught to look upon his sword as a weapon of defence as well as of offence.

“If we come to fighting at close quarters at any time, I’ve got to take care of myself,” thought the lad, “so you’ll have to be sharpened up.”

He was in the act of sheathing his blade, and had it half back in the scabbard, when the report of a carbine rang out across the barrack-yard.

Clang! went the sabre as the hilt was driven home, and, quick as thought, the young officer began to buckle on the belt; but before he had raised it to his waist another carbine raised the echoes of the place, the shouting for the guard to turn out followed through the open window, and, as soon as the belt was fastened, Dick caught at his sword, hooked it up, put on his cap, and hurried down.

“That you?” cried Wyatt from out of the darkness.

“Yes. What’s the matter? Enemy?”

“Enemy! Nonsense! Black Bob again for a tenner.”

The lieutenant was right, as they found after doubling to the cells. The prisoner had broken out again after once more outwitting the sentry and knocking him down: and, worse still, they found on reaching the gateway, where a sergeant, along with the guard, was standing with a couple of lanterns, that the sentry had been knocked down there as well, and the prisoner had passed out.

Wyatt heard all this as they came up, the sergeant being engaged in bullying the second sentry with all his might.

“You might have stopped him if you had tried, you mop-headed idiot!” cried the sergeant.

“How was I to stop him?” retorted the man. “I gave the alarm.”

“And let the prisoner escape. It was your duty to have fired at him,” roared the sergeant. “I want to know what the officers are going to say.”

“Why didn’t you fire at him?” cried Wyatt angrily.

“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the sentry, drawing himself up as he recognised his officer. “I’m pretty good at firing-practice with carbine and pistol.”

“It doesn’t seem like it, sir,” said Wyatt sharply.

“I should have brought him down, sir,” said the man apologetically.

“Well, that’s what you were placed here for.—That you, Hulton?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Hanson broken out and escaped.”

The captain uttered an angry ejaculation, gave orders, and men with lanterns were sent in pursuit, divided into three parties, with one of which were Wyatt and Dick.

“He’s gone,” said the former angrily. “Hiding in the native quarter somewhere—the scamp! It’s like hunting for a needle in a bottle of hay.”

“Hi! Here: this way, lads,” cried the sergeant in front with a lantern, by whose light Dick indistinctly caught sight of a figure in shirt and trousers rising from below in the ditch.

Then there was a scrimmage, joined in by three or four men, and the man of whom they were in search was thrown and handcuffed, a pair being conveniently handy in the sergeant’s pocket.

“This is a slice of good luck,” said Wyatt as soon as the prisoner was secured. “Now then, let the fellow rise, and take him back.—Get up, sir.”

“Can’t,” growled the prisoner savagely.

“Lift him to his feet,” cried the sergeant. The prisoner was dragged up, and it was noticed that he stood on one leg only.

“Here, he has been hurt,” cried Dick. “Look at that leg.—What’s the matter, Hanson?”

“Sprained,” said the man surlily.

“How did you do that?”

“Jumping down into the ditch. You wouldn’t have caught me if it hadn’t been for the sprain.”

“He’s only shamming, sir,” said the sergeant. “He can walk.”

“I think not,” said Dick quietly.—“You are hurt, Hanson?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the man bitterly, “I’m hurt. Just my luck.”

“Hold the lantern lower,” said Dick, going down on one knee.

“Take care, sir; he’ll kick you,” cried the sergeant.

“Yah!” roared the prisoner, turning to the speaker savagely.

“He won’t kick,” said Dick coolly, bending over to take the man’s ankle between his hands after turning up the trouser-leg.

“Well?” said Wyatt quickly.

“Bad sprain, and swelling up already,” said Dick quietly.

“Fetch the ambulance,” said Captain Hulton, who had come up on seeing the lights stationary.

“Oh, I can hop back to the cells, Captain,” said the prisoner in a voice full of bravado.

“Silence, sir!”

“It strikes me, Dick,” whispered Wyatt, “that he’ll have to hop somewhere else before he has done.”

“Carry him back to the cell,” said Hulton sternly.

A couple of the guard stepped to the injured man’s side.

“All right, boys,” he said in a low tone. “I’ve got no more fight in me; I give in.”

He threw his arms over the men’s shoulders, and somewhat after the fashion of giving a ride in a sedan or “dandy-chair,” as children call it, the prisoner was raised from the ground and borne back to his place of imprisonment.

“He ought to have a doctor directly,” said Dick as he and Wyatt followed some little distance behind the party bearing the prisoner.

“Who says so?” said Wyatt.

“I do.”

“And what do you know about it, chicken?”

“I know that he has fallen heavily upon his foot and given the ankle a bad wrench. It’s about double its proper size now, and requires immediate treatment.”

“Don’t think so. It has done him good. Tamed him a bit.”

“But you don’t want the man to be lame?”

“Never said I did, dear boy. But what should you do?”

“Call in the doctor.”

“But if there were no doctor?”

“Apply bandages and lotion at once.”

“Humph! Suppose a chap had a leg taken off by a twelve-pound shot and there was no doctor, what should you do then?”

“Apply a tourniquet well on the femoral artery, and do what I could to check the bleeding.”

“Humph! Suppose a fellow had a bullet through him anywhere?”

“Plug and bandage the wound.”

“Sword-cut?”

“Depend on what and where it was. Most likely put in a few stitches to draw it together, and then apply strapping.”

“All right,” said Wyatt; “we’re often right away from a doctor, and some of us get into trouble, so just you stick by me, Dick, in case I go down.”

Dick laughed.

“I suppose what you say is all right.”

“Oh, yes,” said the lad confidently. “That is what my father would have done.”

“But your father was never in a battle.”

“In the battle of life every day,” said Dick.

“But he never treated a man who had had his leg taken off by a shot.”

“No; but he has treated poor fellows who have had their legs taken off by machines.”

“Well, no sword-cuts?”

“Worse ones—made by scythes.”

“I’ve got you this time! No holes made by bullets?”

“No: but I went with him once to see a poor fellow who had had an iron rod driven through one arm.”

“Bravo, old fellow—Well, has he quieted down?” This to Hulton, who was coming away from the cell door.

“I’ve sent for the doctor.”