Beyond the dressing-station, down the road, the banks of which were filled with little niches hollowed out with entrenching tools, hurried a figure. He was but one of many, but there was that about him which commanded the attention of all who saw him. His spurs and boots were dirty, his uniform covered with stains and dust, his face unshaven. He walked like a man in a dream, yet as of set purpose. Pale and haggard, he strode along, mechanically acknowledging salutes.
Arrived at the dressing-station, without pausing he entered, and went up to one of the doctors who was bandaging the remnants of an arm.
“Have they come yet?” he asked.
The other looked at him gravely with a certain respect and pity, and with the eye also of a medical man.
“Not yet, Colonel,” he answered. “You had better sit down and rest, you are all in.”
The Colonel passed a weary hand over his forehead.
“No,” he said. “No, Campbell; I shall go back and look for the party. They may have lost their way, and—they were three of my best officers, three of my boys.... I—I——”
“Here, sir! Take this.”
It was more of a command than a request. The Colonel drained what was given him, and went out without a word.
Back he trudged, along the shell-pitted road, even now swept by occasional salvos of shrapnel. He took no notice of anything, but continued feverishly on his way, his eyes ever searching the distance. At last he gave vent to an exclamation. Down the road was coming a stretcher party. They had but one stretcher, and on it lay three blanketed bundles.