"Oh, my God, my God!" he gasped, gripping Barry by the arm, and
staggering back as if he had received a blow. He turned to the door as
if to make his escape, but Barry, himself white and shaken, held him
firmly.
"Steady, old boy," he said. "Steady, Duncan!"
"Oh, let me go! Let me get out of here!"
"Duncan, there are a lot of wounded chaps out there."
The boy--he was only nineteen--was halted at the word, stood motionless
and then muttered:
"You are right, sir. I was forgetting."
"And, Duncan, remember," said Barry, in a quiet and solemn voice,
"there's more than that to McPherson. That fine young chap whom you knew
and loved is not that poor and battered piece of clay. Your friend has
escaped from death and all its horrors."
"Yes, yes, I know," whispered Cameron, still shaking. "We'll go out now,
sir. I'll be all right. I assure you I'm all right."
They passed out into the dressing-room again, where the wounded were
continuing to arrive. Cameron was for departing at once, but Barry
held him back, unwilling that the lad should be driven away beaten and
unnerved by what he had seen.
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