While speaking, he held out the document referred to, in order that I might examine it.
“It is not necessary,” I said; “you are of the medical staff; your errand is your passport.”
“Enough, Señor Capitan. I shall proceed to the accomplishment of my duty. In the name of humanity and Mexico, once more I thank you!”
Saying this, he walked off with his followers towards that portion of the field, where most of his wounded countrymen had miserably passed the night.
In the style and personal appearance of this Mexican there was a gracefulness peculiarly impressive. He was a man of not less than fifty years of age, of dark complexion under snow-white hair, and with features so finely outlined as to appear almost feminine. A pair of large, liquid eyes, a voice soft and musical, small delicate hands, and a graceful modesty of demeanour, bespoke him a person of refinement—in short, a gentleman.
The fact of his speaking English, though not very fluently, being an accomplishment rare among his countrymen, betokened intellectual culture, perhaps foreign travel—an idea strengthened by his general manner and bearing. There was something in his looks, moreover, that led me to think he must be clever in his calling.
I bethought me of the invalid inside the tent. Calros might stand in need of his skill.
I was about to summon him back, when the young girl, hurrying out, anticipated my intention. She had overheard the dialogue between the new-comer and myself, and, thinking only of her brother, had rushed forth to claim the services of the surgeon.
“Oh, Señor,” she cried, making the appeal to myself, “will you call him back to—to see Calros?”
“I was about to do so,” I replied. “He is coming!”