“In the next bed,” she said, “there is a grand blessé.” She looked at him significantly. “He wishes to speak to you—he is a friend of yours.”
In the next bed lay Hazelton, the startling black of his shaggy hair framing the pallor of his face.
With difficulty Raoul raised his head. They smiled at each other. From the communion of their silence came Hazelton’s deep voice.
“Why the devil,” he said, “did we ever hate each other?”
Raoul shook his head. He didn’t know. He, too, had wanted to ask Hazelton this.
“It has bothered me,” said Hazelton. “I wanted to see you—” His voice trailed off. “I’ve wanted to ask you why we have needed this war—death—to make us know we don’t hate each other.”
“I don’t know,” said De Vilmarte. It was an effort for him to speak; his voice sounded frail and broken.
“Raoul,” Hazelton asked, tenderly, “where are you wounded? Is it bad?”
“I don’t know,” Raoul answered again.
“It’s his head,” the sister answered for him, “and his right hand.”