He waved his hand.
"A great many madmen. More so than wounded."
"Real madmen?"
"What others can there be?"
He was looking at me, and his eyes wore the same fixed, wild expression, full of cold horror, that the soldier's had, who died of sunstroke.
"Stop that," said I, turning away.
"The doctor is mad also. Just look at him."
The doctor had not heard. He was sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, swaying to and fro, soundlessly moving his lips and finger-tips. And in his gaze there was the same fixed, stupefied, blunt, stricken expression.
"I feel cold," said he, and smiled.
"Hang you all!" cried I, moving away into a corner of the carriage. "What did you call me up for?"