"Glad to see you, McGregor," said Blake. "I know Mr. Rivers by sight—oh, and well, too—he was back of the line in that horrid mix-up at the Bloody Angle—he was with the stretcher-bearers."
"Where," said McGregor, "he had no business to be."
Rivers laughed as he rarely did. "It may seem strange to you all, but I am never so happy"—he came near to saying so little unhappy—"as when I am among the dying and the wounded, even if the firing is heavy."
Blake looked at the large-featured face and the eyes that, as old McGregor said, were so kindly and so like mysterious jewels as they seemed to radiate the light that came from within. His moment of critical doubt passed, and he felt the strange attractiveness which Rivers had for men and the influential trust he surely won.
"I prefer," remarked McGregor, "to operate when bullets are not flying."
"But you do not think of them then," returned Rivers, "I am sure you do not."
"No, I do not, but they seem to be too attentive at times. I lost a little finger-tip back of Round Top. We had thirteen surgeons killed or wounded that day. The Rebs left eighty surgeons with their wounded. We sent them home after we got up enough help from the cities."
"It was not done always," said Penhallow. "More's the pity."
"We had Grant at the hospital yesterday," said the doctor. "He comes often."
"Did you notice his face?" queried Rivers.