"Going to load up again! Poor lads, turned into corpses, they are!"
Frémont had turned very pale.
"Let's be off!" he murmured.
"Oh, rot!" I said rather fiercely. "Let's see as much as we can.... We may be in their place to-morrow."
He stayed. A low cart appeared, containing two stretchers. On one of them was an officer with a bloodless face. He had a compress on his neck which dripped dark blood. On the other there was a young beardless corporal, whose respiration was rapid but even. Although awake, he persistently kept his eyes closed. What could his wound be? The orderly gave an expressive glance. A great-coat which had been thrown over the man hung down at the knee-joints. His two legs were gone.
"No, no, come away!" Frémont repeated with a shudder.
The horror of it! And it might so easily have been my turn to agonise to-morrow! By the fault of the politicians who had let loose this war! I cursed the allotted task, the yoke laid on so many, and my own acquiescence.
Then my attention was distracted. An N.C.O. in the 30th who took an opportunity of getting out when his cart stopped—the horse had lost a shoe, I believe—asked for a drink. Someone offered him wine.
"No. Water!"
An uncanny voice, hoarse with fever. They brought him some water. He drank large gulps of it. I watched him. What was the matter with him, with his dark ringed eyes and pinched, mask-like face, and his body bent so queerly!