“You see what a fine figure you made me cut.”
He gave no answer. My request to dictate a telegram to the newspaper he flatly refused. Half an hour later we arrived at the encampment. From inside my tent I heard a horse trotting and then stop. A voice asked:
“May I come in?”
“Come in,” I cried.
An officer entered. I knew him at once. It was the surgeon I had talked to on the railroad train.
“The general sent me,” he announced. “I am an army surgeon; my name is Tasa. Let me feel your pulse.”
“But I am very well,” I replied, irritated.
“Keep calm. The general’s orders,” he whispered smiling.
I held out my hand. He felt my pulse, looking at his watch, then commanded:
“Let me see your tongue.”