There was an instant of silence; the picture returned and wrung a groan from Peter. All the energy of his life rebelled against the fact. Boylan's hand tightened upon him. For the moment Mowbray was in a kind of delirium.
“The moon had just come up,” he said, “like another sun. The real sun was still in the sky from our hill.”
“I know. I was there. Cut it, Peter.”
“Where is Samarc?”
“In one of the hospital buildings, likely. I meant to find him as soon as I could leave you—”
“I'll go with you.”
Big Belt fumbled in his saddled bags for a flask, brought it in one hand, a cup of water in the other....
They were in the streets, very dark. Once they were caught in a swift current of sheep driven in for the commissary. Judenbach sat on the slope of a hill, a little city, its heart of stone, very ancient, its “hoopskirts,” as Boylan said, made of woven-cane huts. Already the stone buildings of the narrow main street were crowded with wounded. The correspondents were not permitted far either way from headquarters. Finally it was necessary to get Dabnitz of the staff to conduct them.... It had all been a jumble of ambulances at nightfall from the field, the lieutenant said. Russian soldiers were not ticketed. Many faces on the cots were bandaged beyond recognition. The three gave up at midnight, Peter gaining strength rather than losing it in the later hours. Orders were that the streets be emptied of all but sentries.
“No, nothing like that—” said Boylan, as Mowbray sank to the floor by his blanket roll. “You haven't had supper—”
“Don't, Boylan.... I say, what do they do with the dead?”