"Yes," said Peter. "Give it to me. I can't ever read it now."
"I can read it for you," said Aladdin. He was struggling with a sob that wanted to tear his throat.
"Will you? Will you?" cried Peter, and he smiled like a beautiful child.
"Sure I will," said Aladdin.
With the palm of his hand he pressed back the streaming sweat from his forehead twice and three times. Then, having wiped his hands upon his knees, he drew the battered fragment of his sword, and using it as a paper-knife, opened the letter carefully, as a man opens letters which are not to be destroyed. Then his stomach turned cold and his tongue grew thick and burred. For the letter which Margaret had written to her lover was more cruel than the shell which had blinded his eyes and the bullet which was taking his life.
"'Laddin—" this in a fearful voice.
"Yes."
"Thank God. I thought you'd been hit. Why don't you read?"
