[Illustration]

Coming out of a hospital-tent, at headquarters, the surgeon cannonaded
against, and rebounded from, another officer; a sallow man, not young,
with a face worn more by ungentle experiences than by age; with weary
eyes that kept their own counsel, iron gray hair, and a moustache that
was as if a raven had laid its wing across his lips and sealed them.

"Well?"

"Beg pardon, Major. Didn't see you. Oh, compound fracture and bruises,
but it's all right. He'll pull through."

"Thank GOD."

It was probably an involuntary expression, for prayer and praise were
not much in the Major's line, as a jerk of the surgeon's head would have
betrayed to an observer. He was a bright little man, with his feelings
showing all over him, but with gallantry and contempt of death enough
for both sides of his profession; who took a cool head, a white
handkerchief and a case of instruments, where other men went hot-blooded
with weapons, and who was the biggest gossip, male or female, of the
regiment. Not even the Major's taciturnity daunted him.

"Didn't think he'd as much pluck about him as he has. He'll do all right
if he doesn't fret himself into a fever about poor Jackanapes"

"Whom are you talking about?" asked the Major hoarsely.