He would have laughed to have heard his own talk afterward. A man does not remember what he says to a loved horse, or to a dog that looks up in passing. Innocent as that, Peter's sayings to the wounded and dying. Had there been spies about, the American would have been counted eminently safe. He had to talk; his heart was so full; it was part of the action that saved him. All the time there was in the background of his mind a steady amazement at himself—something of his, aloof, watchful, that was not exactly ready to accede to all this change and emotion, and yet was not strong enough to prevent.
Twice through the long forenoon he saw a little black-whiskered orderly, eyes dark and wide and deep, his nose sensitive and finely shaped, his shoulders unsoldierly. Once his cap fell as he went to lift a pan, and Peter saw as noble a brow as ever dignified a man. He went to him and, as he stood there, he found there was nothing to say.
“Who are you?” the other asked.
“That's what I was trying to think to ask you?” Peter said with a smile. “I am Mowbray, an American correspondent—”
“Why are you here?” He pointed to the cots.
“I had to do something.”
“The misery called to you?”
“Perhaps. To be sure, I'd better say my own misery made me come.”
They talked in French.
“It is all the same. You are not a beast.”