A civilian physician, coming down the aisle, exchanged a few words with the ward-master and then turned to Berkley.
"You are trooper Ormond, orderly to Colonel Arran ?" "Yes." "Colonel Arran desires you to remain here at his orders for the present." "Is Colonel Arran likely to recover, doctor ?" "He is in no immediate danger." "May I see him ?" "Certainly.

He sent for you.

Step this way." They entered another and much smaller ward in which there were very few cots, and from which many of the flies had been driven.
Colonel Arran lay very white and still on his cot; only his eyes turned as Berkley came up and stood at salute.
"Sit down," he said feebly.

And, after a long silence: "Berkley, the world seems to be coming right.

I am grateful that I--lie here--with you beside me." Berkley's throat closed; he could not speak; nor did he know what he might have said could he have spoken, for within him all had seemed to crash softly into chaos, and he had no mind, no will, no vigour, only a confused understanding of emotion and pain, and a fierce longing.
Colonel Arran's sunken eyes never left his, watching, wistful, patient.