the better. I want
no more red fezzes and breeches in my commands for the enemy to
blaze at a mile away! I want no more picturesque lances. I want
plain blue pants and Springfield rifles, by God! And I guess I'll
get them, if I make noise enough in North America!"

Who this impassioned military critic was, shouting opinions to the
sky, Berkley never learned; for presently there was a great
jingling and clatter and trample of horses brought around, and the
officers, whoever they were, mounted and departed as they had
arrived, in darkness, leaving Berkley on his cot in the storehouse
to stretch his limbs, and yawn and stretch again, and draw the warm
folds of the blanket closer, and lie blinking at the dark, through
which, now, a bird had begun to twitter a sweet, fitful salute to
the coming dawn.

Across the foot of his couch lay folded an invalid's red hospital
wrapper; beside his bed stood the slippers. After a few moments he
rose, stepped into the slippers, and, drawing on the woolen robe,
belted it in about his thin waist. Then he limped out to the
veranda.

In the dusk the bird sang timidly. Berkley could just make out the
outlines of the nearer buildings, and of tall trees around. Here
and there lights burned behind closed windows; but, except for
these, the world was black and still; stiller for the deadened
stamping of horses in distant unseen stalls.

An unmistakable taint of the hospital hung in the fresh morning
air--a vague hint of anaesthetics, of cooking--the flat odour of
sickness and open wounds.

Lanterns passed in the darkness toward the stables; unseen shapes
moved hither and thither, their footsteps sharply audible. He
listened and peered about him for a while, then went back to the
store-room, picked his way among the medical supplies, and sat down
on the edge of his bed.

A few moments later he became aware of somebody moving on the
veranda, and of a light outside; heard his door open, lifted his
dazzled eyes in the candle rays.

"Are you here, Philip?" came a quiet, tired voice. "You must wake,
now, and dress. Colonel Arran is conscious and wishes to see you."

"Ailsa! Good God!"

She stood looking at him placidly, the burning candle steady in her
hand, her; face very white and thin.

He had risen, standing there motionless in his belted invalid's
robe with the stencilled S. C. on the shoulder. And now he would
have gone to her, hands outstretched, haggard face joyously