"Never mind. Clean water does no hurt," he said, for he had drawn out his handkerchief to wipe the splash away, and finding it soiled with dust and powder-grime had returned it to his pocket.
The surgeon returned:
"I wish we had clean water—it would be above price. But all the springs are fouled with blood, and there are dead French in the courtyard-well."
"They must be got out and the well cleansed, if possible," said the Chancellor. "Meanwhile, a temporary supply must be found.... What nourishment have you, fit for wounded men?"
The surgeon responded, busy with a cotton-wool chloroform pad:
"Nothing, Excellency, except wine and a little Extract of Liebig."
The Chancellor said harshly:
"Yet this appears to be a farm-house, and I heard the clucking of fowls down below!"
The surgeon, who was a bullet-headed, obstinate East Prussian, and did not relish this sort of hectoring, returned, thrusting out a stubbly under-jaw:
"Excellency, there are certainly fowls in the farmyard. But they are not mine, nor have I money to buy. They belong to the unhappy wretch who owns this place, and has lost everything else."