Involuntarily, from long habit of discipline, Slavin and Yorke, stiffened to "attention" in the presence of their superiors, until, with a kindly, yet withal slightly imperious gesture, the O.C. mutely signified them to relax their formal attitude. The Regimental Surgeon, Dr. Sampson, a tall, gray-moustached, pleasant-faced man, nodded to them familiarly and proceeded to make minute examination of his patient's wound. From time to time he questioned and issued low-voiced instructions to Sister Marthe. Perfectly motionless, the grave-eyed quartette of policemen stood grouped around the cot, silently awaiting the physician's verdict.
Throughout, poor Redmond had continued to toss and rave incessantly. Much of his babbling was incoherent and fragmentary—breaking off short in the middle of a sentence or dying away in a mumbling, indistinct murmur. At intervals though, his voice rang out with startling clearness.
"Ah-a-a! Here he is!" he cried out suddenly, "Gully!"—all eyes were centred on the flushed, unquiet face and restless hands. There seemed a curious, morbid fascination in watching the workings of that sub-conscious mind. "No use, Gully! You can't make it from there!"—the twitching hands made a motion as of levelling a carbine—"No use, man! I've got you covered. . . . You' better give in! . . ."
He paused for a space, panting feverishly, then his eyes became wilder and his speech more rapid.
"No! no! Gully!" he gasped out imploringly, "it's Yorkey, I tell you—oh, don't pick off Yorkey! . . . Drink? . . ."—the unnaturally bright eyes stared unseeingly at the motionless figure of the O.C., standing at the foot of the cot—"Not so much—now—since—looking after him. . . . Not a bad chap. . . . We fought once. . . . Yes, Sir! . . . had—hell of a fight! . . . Pax? . . . sure!—bless you!—buried ruddy hatchet—auld lang syne—Slavin. . . . St. Agnes' Eve! . . . How he sings—! Oh, shut up, Yorkey!—Sings, I tell you—! Hark! . . . that's him singin' now—Listen! . . . What? . . . it's Stevenson's 'Requiem'. . . . Burke! Burke! . . . the ——'s always singin' that . . . goes—"
And the weak, fretful voice shrilled up in a quavering falsetto—
"Under the wide—and—starry sky
Dig—the grave, and—let me—lie;
Glad did I—live, and—gladly die,
And I laid—me down with—a w——"
The shaky, pitiful tones died away in vague, incoherent mumblings.
Yorke uttered a queer choking sound in his throat, and turned his face away from the little group. Slavin, in silent comprehending sympathy, laid a huge hand on the other's shoulder to steady him. In customary British fashion, the O.C. and the Inspector strove to mask their emotions under an exaggerated grimness of mien, only their eyes betraying their feelings. The former, toying with his sweeping, fair moustache in agitated fashion, gazed drearily around the sick-room till his stern, yet kindly old eyes finally came to rest upon a framed scriptural quotation which was hanging on the wall above the head of the cot.
In corpulent, garish, black, red and gold German text the inscription ran: