"Gods of Laughter! What in hell—what sort of thing am I?" he asked aloud, and lurched on, muttering insanely to himself, laughing, talking under his breath, hearing nothing, seeing nothing but her wistful eyes, gazing sorrowfully out of the night.
At a dark crossing he ran blindly into a moving horse; was pushed aside by its cloaked rider with a curse; stood dazed, while his senses slowly returned—first, hearing—and his ears were filled with the hollow trample of many horses; then vision, and in the dark street before him he saw the column of shadowy horsemen riding slowly in fours, knee to knee, starlight sparkling on spur and bit and sabre guard.
Officers walked their lean horses beside the column. One among them drew bridle near him, calling out:
"Have you the right time?"
Berkley looked at his watch.
"Midnight."
"Thank you, friend."
Berkley stepped to the curb-stone: "What regiment is that?"
"Eighth New York."
"Leaving?"