Who this impassioned military critic was, shouting opinions to the sky, Berkley never learned; for presently there was a great jingling and clatter and trample of horses brought around, and the officers, whoever they were, mounted and departed as they had arrived, in darkness, leaving Berkley on his cot in the storehouse to stretch his limbs, and yawn and stretch again, and draw the warm folds of the blanket closer, and lie blinking at the dark, through which, now, a bird had begun to twitter a sweet, fitful salute to the coming dawn.

Across the foot of his couch lay folded an invalid’s red hospital wrapper; beside his bed stood the slippers.  After a few moments he rose, stepped into the slippers, and, drawing on the woolen robe, belted it in about his thin waist.  Then he limped out to the veranda.

In the dusk the bird sang timidly.  Berkley could just make out the outlines of the nearer buildings, and of tall trees around.  Here and there lights burned behind closed windows; but, except for these, the world was black and still; stiller for the deadened stamping of horses in distant unseen stalls.

An unmistakable taint of the hospital hung in the fresh morning air—­a vague hint of anaesthetics, of cooking—­the flat odour of sickness and open wounds.

Lanterns passed in the darkness toward the stables; unseen shapes moved hither and thither, their footsteps sharply audible.  He listened and peered about him for a while, then went back to the store-room, picked his way among the medical supplies, and sat down on the edge of his bed.

A few moments later he became aware of somebody moving on the veranda, and of a light outside; heard his door open, lifted his dazzled eyes in the candle rays.

“Are you here, Philip?” came a quiet, tired voice.  “You must wake, now, and dress.  Colonel Arran is conscious and wishes to see you.”

“Ailsa!  Good God!”

She stood looking at him placidly, the burning candle steady in her hand, her; face very white and thin.

He had risen, standing there motionless in his belted invalid’s robe with the stencilled S. C. on the shoulder.  And now he would have gone to her, hands outstretched, haggard face joyously illumined; but she stepped back with a swift gesture that halted him; and in her calm, unfriendly gaze he hesitated, bewildered, doubting his senses.

“Ailsa, dear, is anything wrong?”

“I think,” she said quietly, “that we had better not let Colonel Arran see how wrong matters have gone between us.  He is very badly hurt.  I have talked a little with him.  I came here because he asked for you and for no other reason.”

“Did you know I was here?”

“I saw you arrive last night—­from the infirmary window. . . .  I hope your wound is healed,” she added in a strained voice.

“Ailsa!  What has happened?”

She shuddered slightly, looked at, him without a shadow of expression.