them too.
We all knew about them, he and the doctor, and the General and I. He
knew and understood, most of all. And his tone was bitter.

After that, he knew the doctor couldn't save him, and that he should not
see his wife and children again. Whereupon he became angry with the
treatment, and protested against it. The _picqures_ hurt--they hurt very
much, and he did not want them. Moreover, they did no good, for his pain
was now very intense, and he tossed and tossed to get away from it.

So the third day dawned, and he was alive, and dying, and knew that he
was dying. Which is unusual and disconcerting. He turned over and over,
and black fluid vomited from his mouth into the white enamel basin. From
time to time, the orderly emptied the basin, but always there was more,
and always he choked and gasped and knit his brows in pain. Once his
face broke up as a child's breaks up when it cries. So he cried in pain
and loneliness and resentment.

He struggled hard to hold on. He wanted very much to live, but he could
not do it. He said: "_Je ne tiens plus._"

Which was true. He couldn't hold on. The pain was too great. He clenched
his hands and writhed, and cried out for mercy. But what mercy had we?
We gave him morphia, but it did not help. So he continued to cry to us
for mercy, he cried to us and to God. Between us, we let him suffer
eight hours more like that, us and God.

Then I called the priest. We have three priests on the ward, as
orderlies, and I got one of them to give him the Sacrament. I thought it
would quiet him. We could not help him with drugs, and he had not got it
quite in his head that he must die, and when he said, "I am dying," he
expected to be contradicted. So I asked Capolarde to give him the
Sacrament, and he said yes, and put a red screen around the bed, to
screen him from the ward. Then Capolarde turned to me and asked me to
leave. It was summer time. The window at the head of the bed was open,
the hay outside was new cut and piled into little haycocks. Over in the
distance the guns rolled. As I turned to go, I saw Capolarde holding a
tray of Holy Oils in one hand, while with the other he emptied the basin
containing black vomitus out the window.

No, it did not bring him comfort, or resignation. He fought against it.
He wanted to live, and he resented Death, very bitterly. Down at my end
of the ward--it was a silent, summer afternoon--I heard them very
clearly. I heard the low words from b