"
"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. And at last the boy bent forward and rested his elbows on
his knees and dropped his face in both hands. Time ebbed away in
silence; there was no sound in the ward save the blue flies' buzz
or the slight movement of some wounded man easing his tortured body.
"Philip!"
The boy lifted his face from his hands.
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