ed covers were very straight, sliding neither to this side nor to that,
as covers slide under restless pain.

"I cannot walk, _Monsieur Major_."

So Andre stopped, attentive. The man continued.

"I cannot walk, _Monsieur Major_. Because of that, from the trenches I
was removed a month ago. After that I was given a _fourgon_, a wagon in
which to transport the loaves of bread. But soon it arrived that I could
not climb to the high seat of my wagon, nor could I mount to the saddle
of my horse. So I was obliged to lead my horses, stumbling at their
bridles. So I have stumbled for the past four weeks. But now I cannot
even do that. It is very painful."

Andre passed a hand over his short, thick, upright hair, and smoothed
his stiff brush reflectively. Then he put questions to the man,
confidentially, and at the answers continued to rub backward his tight
brush of hair. After which he disappeared from the ward for a time, but
returned presently, bringing with him a Paris surgeon who happened to be
visiting the Front that day. There also came with him another little
doctor of the hospital staff, who was interested in what Andre had told
him of the case. The three stood together at the foot of the bed,
stroking their beards and their hair meditatively, while they plied the
patient with questions. After which they directed Alphonse, the swarthy,
dark orderly, who looked like a brigand, and Henri, the priest-orderly,
to help the patient to rise.

They stood him barefoot upon the floor, supporting him slightly by each
elbow. To his knees, or just above them, fell a scant, gay, pink
flannel nightshirt, his sole garment. It was one of many warm, gay
nightshirts, pink and cheerful, that some women of America had sent over
to the wounded heroes of France. It made a bright spot of colour in the
sombre ward, and through the open window, one caught glimpses of green
hop fields, and a windmill in the distance, waving its slow arms.

"Walk," commanded Andre. "Walk to the door. Turn and return."

The man staggered between the beds, holding to them, half bent over,
fearful. Cool summer air blew in through the window, waving the pink
nightshirt, making goose flesh rise on the shapely white legs that
wavered. Then he moved down the ward, between the rows of beds, moving
with uncertain, running, halting steps. Upon the linoleum, his bare feet
flapped in soft thumps, groping wildly, interfering, knocking against
each other. The man, tryin