The ward-master returned presently, threading his way through a mass of parked ambulances to the shed where Berkley sat on a broken cracker box.

“Colonel Arran is very low.  I guess you’d better not bother him to-night.”

“Is he—­mortally hurt?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“He may get well?”

“I’ve seen ’em get well,” said the non-committal ward-master.  Then, looking Berkley over:  “You’re pretty dirty, ain’t you?  Are you—­” he raised his eyebrows significantly.

“I’m clean,” said Berkley with the indifference habituated to filth.

“All right.  They’ll fix you up a cot somewhere.  If Colonel Arran comes out all right I’ll call you.  He’s full of opium now.”

“Did they get the bullet?”

“Oh, yes.  I ain’t a surgeon, my friend, but I hear a lot of surgeon talk.  It’s the shock—­in a man of his age.  The wound’s clean, so far—­not a thread in it, I hear.  Shock—­and gangrene—­that’s what we look out for. . . .  What’s the news down by the river?”

“I don’t know,” said Berkley.

“Don’t you know if you got licked?”

“I don’t think we did.  You’d hear the firing out here much plainer.”

“You’re the 8th Cavalry, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“They say you got cut up.”

“Some.”

“And how about the Zouaves?”

“Oh, they’re there yet,” said Berkley listlessly.  Fatigue was overpowering him; he was aware, presently, that a negro, carrying a lantern, was guiding his stumbling steps into a small building where, amid piles of boxes, an army cot stood covered by a blanket.  Berkley gave him a crumpled mess of paper money, and he almost expired.

Later the same negro rolled a wooden tub into the room, half filled it with steaming water, and stood in profound admiration of his work, grinning at Berkley.

“Is you-all gwine bresh up, suh?” he inquired.

Berkley straightened his shoulders with an effort, unbuckled his belt, and slowly began to take off his wet uniform.

The negro aided him respectfully; that wet wad of dollars had done its work profoundly.

“Yo’ is de adjetant ob dis here Gin’ral ob de Lancers, suh?  De po’ ole Gin’ral!  He done git shot dreffle bad, suh. . . .  Jess you lay on de flo’, suh, t’will I gits yo’ boots off’n yo’ laigs!  Dar!  Now jess set down in de tub, suh.  I gwine scrub you wif de saddle-soap—­Lor’, Gord-a-mighty!  Who done bang you on de haid dat-a-way?”—­scrubbing vigorously with the saddle-soap all the while.  “Spec’ you is lame an’ so’ all over, is you?  Now I’se gwine rub you haid, suh; an’ now I’se gwine dry you haid.”  He chuckled and rubbed and manipulated, yet became tender as a woman in drying the clipped hair and the scarred temple.  And, before Berkley was aware of what he was about, the negro lifted him and laid him on the cot.

“Now,” he chuckled, “I’se gwine shave you.”  And he fished out a razor from the rear pocket of his striped drill overalls, rubbed the weapon of his race with a proud thumb, spread more soap over Berkley’s upturned face, and fell deftly to work, wiping off the accumulated lather on the seat of his own trousers.