The incipient stages of many diseases were plainly apparent among them.  Man after man was placed on a stretcher, and hurried off to the contagious wards; some were turned away and directed to other hospitals, and they went without protest, dragging their gaunt legs, even attempting some feeble jest as they passed their wretched comrades whose turns had not yet come.

Presently a hospital servant came and took Berkley away to another building.  The wards were where the schoolrooms had been.  Blackboards still decorated the wall; a half-erased exercise in Latin remained plainly visible over the rows of cots.

Ailsa and the apothecary stood together in low-voiced conversation by a window.  She merely raised her eyes when Berkley entered; then, without giving him a second glance, continued her conversation.

In the heavy, ether-laden atmosphere flies swarmed horribly, and men detailed as nurses from regimental companies were fanning them from helpless patients.  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.  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.

“Can you forgive me?”

“Yes, I have. . . .  There was only one thing to forgive.  I don’t count—­myself.”

“I count it—­bitterly.”

“You need not. . . .  It was only—­my mother——­”

“I know, my boy.  The blade of justice is double-edged.  No mortal can wield it safely; only He who forged it. . . .  I have never ceased to love—­your mother.”