Margaret closed her ears to that piercing sentence, "the song your mother used to sing "—O silent lips!—and going out, crossed over to the hospital.
As she turned into a curved road that approached the door, a soldier pacing there presented his bayonet, probably the same one that had threatened Mrs. Black's plaited linen stomacher.
"You must go the other way," he said with military brevity.
The smaller the warrior, the greater the martinet. Doubtless this young man regarded his present adversary with far more fierceness than he would have shown toward a six-foot Texan grey coat, with a belt bristling with armor, and two eyes like two blades.
Margaret retreated with precipitance, hiding a smile, and took the other road.
"Your pass, ma'am," said a second soldier at the step.
"I haven't any," she said pitifully, and looked with appealing eyes at an officer just inside the door.
He came out immediately.
"What is your pleasure, madam?" he asked, touching his hat.