"Doctor, you are an angel; but I don't believe that I can sleep."
"Let me feel your pulse."
Dr. Khayme placed his fingers on my wrist; I was sitting on the side of the bed.
"Lie down," said he. Then, still with his fingers on my pulse, he said softly, "Poor boy! you have endured too much; no wonder that you are wrought up."
He laid his other hand on my head; his fingers strayed through my hair.
V
WITH THE DOCTOR IN CAMP
"Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms."
--SHAKESPEARE.
When I awoke in Dr. Khayme's tent toward four o'clock of the afternoon of July 22, I felt that my mind was clear; I had slept dreamlessly.