He could do nothing with his pain, but in its tightest embraces, and crying, he lay with his large red handkerchief over his eyes.
"Oh, Evan...!" I said. I couldn't do anything either.
"Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, dear...." he wailed in his plaintive Welsh voice. "Oh, my dear leg, my poor leg...." He looked about nineteen. "Couldn't I lie on my side?"
"No, it would make it bleed."
"Would it?" He was so docile and so unhappy. The tears had run down and marked his pillow; I turned it, although the sergeant couldn't see.
"Will they give me something to make me sleep to-night?"
"Yes, Evan, at eight o'clock."
I said that because I was so sure of it, I had always seen it done. But oh, I should have made more sure...!
He built on it, he leant all his hopes upon it; his little clenched hands seemed to be holding my promise as firmly as though it had been my hand.
And Sister said, "No, no ... it would be better not." "Oh, Sister, why not...?" (I, the least of mortals, had made a promise belonging only to the gods....)