"Captain Wrynche was here. He has been recalled to Hotchkiss Outpost North. Drink this." This is a little measure of brandy-and-water, in which some tabloids of morphia have been dissolved. And Beauvayse obeys, panting:
"All right. But ... more a job for the Chaplain than the Doctor, isn't it?"
"Do you wish the Chaplain sent for?"
There is a glimmer of the old lazy, defiant humour in the beautiful dim eyes.
"What could he do?"
Saxham answers—how strangely for him, the Denier:
"He would probably pray beside you, and talk to you of God."
There is a pause. The faint, almost breathless whisper asks:
"It's night, isn't it?"