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England, George Allan, 1877-1936

"The Flying Legion"


Last of all, the river had diminished to a shallow, tortuous delta,
where the Master's numbed feet had touched bottom. There he had
dragged himself ashore, with his goatskin, far more dead than living.
And there, for a time he knew not, consciousness had wholly ceased.
A dull, toneless voice sounded in the Master's ears. Bohannan was
speaking.
"Faith, but it's strange how even the five of us found each other, out
there in the sand," said the major. "What happened to the rest of us,
God knows--maybe!" He choked, coughed, added: "Or to the boys with
Nissr. God rest their souls! I wish I had a sackful of that wine!"
After a long pause: "Don't you, now? What?"
The Master gave no heed. He was trying to ease the position in which
the woman was lying. His jacket was off, now, and he was folding it to
put under her head.
At his touch, she opened vague eyes. She smiled with dry lips, and put
his hand away.
"No, no!" she protested. "No special favors for me! I'm not a woman,
remember. I'm 'Captain Alden,' still--only a Legionary!"
"But--"
"If you favor me in any way, to the detriment of any of the others
or your own, I won't go on! I'm just one of you.


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