Khayme and return in one hour
if possible--and no hard feelings," he added, giving me his hand.

As I went toward the Doctor's tent, my intense distaste for the work
offered me seemed to lessen. Perhaps the night air had some effect on
me; perhaps the general's parting words had soothed me; perhaps the
mystery attaching to the council of war, so to speak, had exaggerated my
fears at first, and now calmness had set in; at any rate, before I had
reached the Doctor I was beginning to sympathize with General Morell,
whose responsibility was so great, and whose evident desire to
conciliate had touched me, and was wishing that I could have served him.
Then, too, the question came to me what would General Morell do in case
my refusal was final? And I had little doubt that the correct reply was:
He will command me. And, in that ease, our relationship would be
weakened unnecessarily; better go willingly than seem to go sullenly.
Yet, with all this, I had resolved that if any escape from this
frightful duty should be presented, if any possible substitute could
occur to the general's mind, or if, by any means, the bitter extreme of
mental suffering, and even--I admitted it to myself--of mental danger,
could be avoided, I should not consent to serve.

To speak of this subject to Dr. Khayme would give me no embarrassment;
I was sure of his full sympathy; but I was hampered by a doubt as to how
much I should tell him of the necessity which prompted the demand for my
work. The three generals had spoken of important matters before me, or
at least hinted at them, and General Morell had been still more
communicative. I made up my mind to say nothing of these matters to
the Doctor.

When I reached the tent I found my old master yet busy at his writing.
As I entered he looked up at me, and immediately rose from his seat.

"You have been tried," said he; "lie down and rest."

He sat by me and felt my pulse. Then he said, "You will do; it is only a
momentary unsteadiness."

Yet, if ever I saw alarm in any one's eyes, that feeling was then in Dr.
Khayme's.

I had said nothing; I now started to speak, but the Doctor placed a
finger on my lips, saying, "Not yet; I'll do the talking for both
of us."

He rose and brought me water, and I drank.

Then he sat by me again, and said, "The fight which one must make with
his will against impulse is not easy, especially with some natures; and
a single defeat makes the fight harder. To yield on