The lights were gone now, and he could feel the fright rising in the men around him. They were afraid in the dark. They began to yell. Some swore queer oaths, original ones, with tears in their throats. Some called to God. And some yelled pitifully to somebody to bring a light.
Wardwell began again to tug at the bandages.
But just then, above the cursing, and some praying, and the frightful, tearing roar of death all about, he heard a girl, down near the end of the room that was still sound, a girl had come into the ward singing. He listened, and the words that he heard were these:
"Gyp, Gyp, me little horse?"
"Gyp-Gyp, again, sir."
"How many miles to Dublin?"
"Four score an' ten, sir."
High and sweet as the voice of a robin bird in the trees of the Hills of Desire he heard the voice of his love.
Then the howl and the tearing jaws of death all around had their sway again. He had thought always that Augusta would somehow come to him before the end. But, My God! he had never bargained for this! This was real! Augusta was here, in this death hole! He must get her out of here. What business had she! Who had let her come here?
He was out of his cot and staggering, bumping down the cot frames, toward the voice that rang again triumphant, singing:
"Gyp, Gyp, me little horse?"
"Gyp-Gyp, again, sir."
Now he was coming near her. Now! Another staggering step or two, if he could only keep his feet straight! Now he was just going to touch her, to take her in his arms! He had almost lurched past her in the dark. Now he had her in his arms!
He thought he whispered her name, but it was really a wild yell in her ear: