The tramp looked up at him with a bewildered glance, but did not answer.
"Well," thought Bertrand, "since it's decided that I'm to be a physician some day, I can't begin to practice too early."
He dismounted, and examined the injured foot. It had an ugly gash. Bertrand acted mostly from impulse. Fortunately his impulses were not bad ones. So, nimbly, and as quickly as he could manage it', he had the old man astride Picayune, whilst he himself was leading the pony down the narrow lane.
The dark green hedge towered like a high and solid wall on one side. On the other was a broad, open field, where here and there appeared the flash and gleam of uplifted, polished hoes, that negroes were plying between the even rows of cotton and tender corn.
"This is the State of Louisiana," uttered the tramp, quaveringly.
"Yes, this is Louisiana," returned Bertrand cheerily.
"Yes, I know it is. I've been in all of them since Gettysburg. Sometimes it was too hot, and sometimes it was too cold; and with that bullet in my head—you don't remember? No, you don't remember Gettysburg."
"Well, no, not vividly," laughed Bertrand.
"Is it a hospital? It isn't a factory, is it?" the man questioned.
"Where we 're going? Why, no, it's the Delmandé plantation—Bon-Accueil. Here we are. Wait, I 'll open the gate."