Berkley secured a little of it for his pipe.
Seated on the edge of the shaky veranda1 in the darkness, he filled and lighted his cob pipe and, smoking tranquilly2, listened to the distant cannonade which had begun about sundown. Thousands of fire-flies sailed low in the damp swale beyond the store-house, or, clinging motionless to the long wet grass and vines, sparkled palely at intervals5. There was no wind. Far on the southern horizon the muttering thunder became heavier and more distinct. From where he sat he could now watch the passage of the great mortar6 shells through the sky, looking like swiftly moving comets cleaving7 unfathomable space; then, falling, faster and faster, dropping out of the heights of night, they seemed to leave behind them tracks of fire that lingered on the dazzled retina long after they had disappeared. The explosion of the incendiary shells was even more spectacular; the burning matter of the chemical charge fell from them in showers of clear blue and golden stars, dropping slowly toward the unseen river below.
He could distinguish the majestic9 thunder of the huge mortars10 from the roar of the Parrotts; the irregular volleys of musketry had a resonant11 clang of metal in them like thousands of iron balls dropped on a sheet of tin.
For an hour the distant display of fireworks continued, then the thunder rolled away, deadened to a dull rumour12, and died out; and the last lingering spark of Greek fire faded in mid-heaven. A wavering crimson13 light brightened on the horizon, increasing, deepening. But what it was that had been set on fire he could not guess. Paigecourt lay in that direction.
He extended his booted legs, propped14 his back against a pillar, and continued smoking carefully and economically to save his fragments of Virginia leaf, deeply absorbed in retrospection.
For the first time he was now certain of the change which time, circumstance, and environment had wrought15 in himself; he was curiously16 conscious of the silent growth of a germ which, one day, must become a dictatorial17 and arbitrary habit—the habit of right thinking. The habit of duty, independent of circumstances, had slowly grown with his military training; mind and body had learned automatically to obey; mind and body now definitely recognised the importance of obedience18, were learning to desire it, had begun to take an obscure sort of pride in it. Mind and body were already subservient19 to discipline. How was it with his other self.
In the human soul there is seldom any real perplexity. Only the body reasons; the soul knows. He knew this now. He knew, too, that there is a greater drill-master than that which was now disciplining his mind and body—the spiritual will—that there is a higher sentiment than the awakened20 instinct of mental and physical obedience—the occult loyalty21 of the spirit. And, within him, something was now awaking out of night, slowly changing him, soul and body.
As he sat there, tranquil3, pondering, there came a shadowy figure, moving leisurely22 under the lighted windows of the hospital, directly toward him—a man swinging a lantern low above the grass—and halted beside him in a yellow shaft23 of light,
"Berkley," he said pleasantly; then, to identify himself, lifted the lantern to a level with his face.
"Dr. Benton!"
"Surely—surely. I come from Paigecourt. I left Mrs. Craig and
Stephen about five o'clock; I have just left Miss Lynden on duty.
May I sit here beside you, Phil? And, in the first place, how are
you, old fellow?"
"Perfectly25 well, doctor. . . . I am glad to see you. . . . It is pleasant to see you. . . . I am well; I really am. You are, too; I can see that. . . . I want to shake hands with you again—to wish you happiness," he added in a low voice. "Will you accept my warmest wishes, Dr. Benton?"
They exchanged a hard, brief grip.
"I know what you mean. Thank you, Phil. . . . I am very happy; I mean that she shall be. Always."
Berkley said: "There are few people I really care for. She is among the few."
"I have believed so. . . . She cares, deeply, for you. . . . She is right." . . . He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the crimson horizon. "What was that shelling about? The gun-boats were firing, too."
"I haven't any idea. Something is on fire, evidently. I hope it is not Paigecourt."
"God forbid!"
The doctor looked hard at the fiery26 sky, but said nothing more.
"How is Stephen?" asked the younger man earnestly.
"Better."
"Is he going to get well?"
Dr. Benton thought a moment.
"He was struck by a conoidal ball, which entered just above the interclavicular notch27 of the sternum and lodged28 near the superior angle of the scapula. Assistant Surgeon Jenning, U. S. V., removed the bullet and applied29 simple dressings30. There was a longitudinal groove31 on the bullet which may have been caused by contact with the bone, but there are no symptoms of injury to the osseous tissue. I hope he will recover entirely32. Miss Lent, his affianced, is expected to-night. Arrangements have been made to convey him aboard a Sanitary33 Commission boat this evening. The sooner he starts North the better. His mother and Miss Lent go with him as nurses."
Berkley drew a quiet breath of relief. "I am glad," he said simply. "There is fever in the air here."
"There is worse, Phil. They're fine people, the Craigs. That mother of his stood the brutal34 shock of the news wonderfully—not a tear, not a tremor35. She is a fine woman; she obeyed me, not implicitly36, but intelligently. I don't like that kind of obedience as a rule; but it happened to be all right in her case. She has voluntarily turned Paigecourt and all the barns, quarters, farms, and out-buildings into a base hospital for the wounded of either army. She need not have done it; there were plenty of other places. But she offered that beautiful old place merely because it was more comfortable and luxurious37. The medical corps38 have already ruined the interior of the house; the garden with its handsome box hedges nearly two centuries old is a wreck39. She has given all the farm horses to the ambulances; all her linen40 to the medical director; all cattle, sheep, swine, poultry41 to the hospital authorities; all her cellared stores, wines, luxuries to the wounded. I repeat that she is a fine specimen42 of American woman—and the staunchest little rebel I ever met."
Berkley smiled, then his bronzed face grew serious in the nickering lantern light.
"Colonel Arran is badly hurt. Did you know it?"
"I do," said the doctor quietly. "I saw him just before I came over here to find you."
"Would you care to tell me what you think of his chances?"
"I—don't—know. He is in considerable pain. The wound continues healthy. They give him a great deal of morphia."
"Do you—believe——"
"I can't yet form an opinion worth giving you. Dillon, the assistant surgeon, is an old pupil of mine. He asked me to look in to-morrow; and I shall do so."
"I'm very glad. I was going to ask you. But—there's a good deal of professional etiquette43 in these hospitals——"
"It's everywhere," said the doctor, smiling. Then his pleasant, alert face changed subtly; he lifted the lantern absently, softly replaced it on the veranda beside him, and gazed at it. Presently he said:
"I came here on purpose to talk to you about another matter. . . . Shall we step inside? Or"—he glanced sharply around, lantern held above his head—"I guess we're better off out here."
Berkley silently assented44. The doctor considered the matter in mind for a while, nursing his knees, then looking directly at Berkley:
"Phil, you once told roe45 a deliberate falsehood."
Berkley's face flushed scarlet46, and he stiffened47 in every muscle.
The doctor said: "I merely wanted you to understand that I knew it to be a falsehood when you uttered it. I penetrated48 your motive49 in telling it, let it go at that, and kept both eyes open—and waited."
Berkley never moved. The painful colour stained the scar on his brow to an ugly purple.
"The consequences of which falsehood," continued the doctor, "culminated50 in my asking Miss Lynden to marry me. . . . I've been thinking—wondering—whether that lie was justifiable51. And I've given up the problem. But I respect your motive in telling it. It's a matter for you to settle privately52 with yourself and your Maker53. I'm no Jesuit by nature; but—well—you've played a man's part in the life of a young and friendless girl who has become to me the embodiment of all I care for in woman. And I thank you for that. I thank you for giving her the only thing she lacked—a chance in the world. Perhaps there were other ways of doing it. I don't know. All I know is that I thank you for giving her the chance."
He ceased abruptly54, folded Ins arms, and gazed musingly55 into space.
Then:
"Phil, have you ever injured a man named Eugene Hallam, Captain of your troop in the 8th Lancers?"
Berkley looked up, startled; and the hot colour began to fade.
"What do you know about Captain Hallam?" he asked.
"Where is he?"
"Probably a prisoner. He was taken at the cavalry56 affair which they now call Yellow Run."
"You saw him taken by the enemy?"
"No. I saw him—surrender—or rather, ride toward the enemy, apparently57 with that design in mind."
"Why don't you say that Hallam played the coward—that he deserted58 his men under fire—was even shot at by his own colonel?"
"You seem to know about it," said Berkley in a mortified59 voice. . . . "No man is anxious to reflect on his own regiment60. That is why I did not mention it."
"Yes, I knew it. Your servant, the trooper Burgess, came to Paigecourt in search of you. I heard the detestable details from him. He was one of the detachment that got penned in; he saw the entire performance."
"I didn't know Burgess was there," said Berkley. "Is he all right?"
"Wears his left wrist in a sling61; Colles's fracture; horse fell. He's a villainous-looking party; I wouldn't trust that fellow with a pewter button. But he seems devoted62 to you."
"I've never been able to make him out," said Berkley, smiling.
The doctor thought a minute.
"I saw two interesting people at Paigecourt. One was Miss Dix, an old friend of mine; the other chanced to be Surgeon General Hammond. They were on a tour of inspection63. I hope they liked what they saw."
"Did they?"
"I guess not. . . . Things in the hospitals ought to go better now. We're learning. . . . By the way, you didn't know that Ailsa Paige had been to Paigecourt, did you?"
"When?"
"Recently. . . . She's another fine woman. She never had an illness worse than whooping64 cough. I know because I've always been her physician. Normally she's a fine, wholesome65 woman, Berkley—but she told a falsehood. . . . You are not the only liar66 south of Dixon's damnable Line!"
Berkley straightened up as though shot, and the doctor dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"The sort of lie you told, Phil, is the kind she told. It doesn't concern you or me; it's between her conscience and herself; and it's in a good safe place. . . . And now I'll sketch67 out for you what she did. This—this beast, Hallam, wrote to Miss Dix at Washington and preferred charges against Miss Lynden. . . . I'm trying to speak calmly and coherently and without passion, damn it! Don't interrupt me. . . . I say that Hallam sent his written evidence to Miss Dix; and Ailsa Paige learned of it, and learned also what the evidence was. . . . And it was a terrible thing for her to learn, Phil—a damnable thing for a woman to learn."
He tightened68 his grasp on Berkley's shoulder, and his voice was not very steady.
"To believe those charges—that evidence—meant the death of her faith in you. . . . As for the unhappy revelation of what Miss Lynden had been—the evidence was hopelessly conclusive69. Imagine what she thought! Any other woman would have sat aloof70 and let justice brand the woman who had doubly betrayed her. I want you to consider it; every instinct of loyalty, friendship, trust, modesty71 had apparently been outraged72 and trampled73 on by the man she had given her heart to, and by the woman she had made a friend. That was the position in which Ailsa Paige found herself when she learned of these charges, saw the evidence, and was informed by Hallam that he had forwarded his complaint."
His grip almost crushed Berkley's shoulder muscles.
"And now I'll tell you what Ailsa Paige did. She went before Miss Dix and told her that there was not one atom of truth in the charges. She accounted for every date specified74 by saying that Miss Lynden was with her at those times, that she had known her intimately for years, known her family—that it was purely75 a case of mistaken identity, which, if ever pressed, would bewilder her friend, who was neither sufficiently76 experienced to understand what such charges meant, nor strong enough to endure the horror and shock if their nature were explained.
"She haughtily77 affirmed her absolute faith in you, avowed78 her engagement to marry you, pointed79 to your splendid military record; disdainfully exposed the motive for Hallam's action. . . . And she convinced Miss Dix, who, in turn, convinced the Surgeon General. And, in consequence, I can now take my little girl away from here on furlough, thank God!—and thanks to Ailsa Paige, who lied like a martyr80 in her behalf. And that's what I came here to tell you."
He drew a long, shuddering81 breath, his hand relaxed on Berkley's shoulder, and fell away.
"I don't know to-day what Ailsa Paige believes; but I know what she did for the sake of a young girl. . . . If, in any way, her faith in you has been poisoned, remember what was laid before her, proven in black and white, apparently; remember, more than that, the terrible and physically82 demoralising strain she has been under in the line of duty. No human mind can remain healthy very long under such circumstances; no reasoning can be normal. The small daily vexations, the wear and tear of nerve tissue, the insufficient83 sleep and nourishment84, the close confinement85 in the hospital atmosphere, the sights, sounds, odours, the excitement, the anxiety—all combine to distort reason and undermine one's natural equipoise.
"Phil, if Ailsa, in her own heart, doubts you as she now doubts Letty, you must understand why. What she did shows her courage, her sweetness, her nobility. What she may believe—or think she believes—is born only of morbid86 nerves, overworked body, and a crippled power of reasoning. Her furlough is on the way; I did myself the honour to solicit87 it, and to interest Miss Dix in her behalf. It is high time; the child cannot stand much more. . . . After a good rest in the North, if she desires to return, there is nobody to prevent her . . . unless you are wise enough to marry her. What do you think?"
Berkley made no answer. They remained silent for a long time. Then the doctor rose and picked up his lantern; and Berkley stood up, too, taking the doctor's outstretched hand.
"If I were you, Phil, I'd marry her," said Benton. "Good-night.
I'll see Colonel Arran in the morning. Good-night, my boy."
"Good-night," said Berkley in a dull voice.
Midnight found him pacing the dead sod in front of the veranda, under the stars. One by one the lights in the hospital had been extinguished; a lantern glimmered88 at the guard-house; here and there an illuminated89 window cast its oblong of paler light across the grass. Southward the crimson radiance had died out; softened90 echoes of distant gunshots marked the passing of the slow, dark hours, but the fitful picket91 firing was now no louder than the deadened stamp of horses in their stalls.
A faint scent92 of jasmine hung in the air, making it fresher, though no breeze stirred.
He stood for a while, face upturned to the stars, then his head fell. Sabre trailing, he moved slowly out into the open; and, at random93, wandered into the little lane that led darkly down under green bushes to Letty's bridge.
It was fresher and cooler in the lane; starlight made the planking of the little foot-bridge visible in the dark, but the stream ran under it too noiselessly for him to hear the water moving over its bed of velvet94 sand.
A startled whippoorwill flashed into shadowy night from the rail as he laid his hand upon it, and, searching for the seat which Letty's invalid95 had built for her, he sank down, burying his head in his hands.
And, as he sat there, a vague shape, motionless in the starlight, stirred, moved silently, detaching itself from the depthless wall of shadow.
There was a light step on the grass, a faint sound from the bridge. But he heard nothing until she sank down on the flooring at his feet and dropped her head, face downward, on his knees.
As in a dream his hands fell from his eyes—fell on her shoulders, lay heavily inert96.
"Ailsa?"
Her feverish97 face quivered, hiding closer; one small hand searched blindly for his arm, closed on his sleeve, and clung there. He could feel her slender body tremble at intervals, under his lips, resting on her hair, her breath grew warm with tears.
She lay there, minute after minute, her hand on his sleeve, slipping, tightening98, while her tired heart throbbed99 out its heavy burden on his knees, and her tears fell under the stars.
Fatigued100 past all endurance, shaken, demoralised, everything in her was giving way now. She only knew that he had come to her out of the night's deathly desolation—that she had crept to him for shelter, was clinging to him. Nothing else mattered in the world. Her weary hands could touch him, hold fast to him who had been lost and was found again; her tear-wet face rested against his; the blessed surcease from fear was benumbing her, quieting her, soothing101, relaxing, reassuring102 her.
Only to rest this way—to lie for the moment unafraid—to cease thinking, to yield every sense to heavenly lethargy—to forget—to forget the dark world's sorrows and her own.
The high planets shed their calm light upon her hair, silvering her slender neck and the hand holding to his sleeve, and the steel edge of his sabre hilt, and a gilded103 button at his throat. And all else lay in shadow, wrapping them close together in obscurity.
At times he thought she was asleep, and scarcely moving, bent24 nearer; but always felt the nervous closing of her fingers on his sleeve.
And at last sleep came to her, deadening every sense. Cautiously he took her hand; the slim fingers relaxed; body and limbs were limp, senses clouded, as he lifted her in his arms and rose.
"Don't—go," she murmured drowsily104.
"No, dear."
Through the darkness, moving with infinite care, he bore her under the stars and stepped noiselessly across the veranda, entered, and laid her on his cot.
"Philip," she murmured.
But he whispered to her that she must sleep, that he would be near her, close to her. And she sighed deeply, and her white lids closed again and rested unstirring on her pallid105 cheeks.
So she slept till the stars faded, then, awaking, lifted her head, bewildered, drawing her hand from his; and saw the dawn graying his face where he sat beside her.
She sat up, rigid106, on the blanket, the vivid colour staining her from throat to brow; then memory overwhelmed her. She covered her eyes with both arms and her head dropped forward under the beauty of her disordered hair.
Minute succeeded minute; neither spoke107 nor moved. Then, slowly, in silence, she looked up at him and met his gaze. It was her confession108 of faith.
He could scarcely hear her words, so tremulously low was the voice that uttered them.
"Dr. Benton told me everything. Take me back. The world is empty without you. I've been through the depths of it—my heart has searched it from the ends to the ends of it. . . . And finds no peace where you are not—no hope—no life. All is desolation without you. Take me back."
She stretched out her hands to him; he took them, and pressed them against his lips; and looking across at him, she said:
"Love me—if you will—as you will. I make no terms; I ask none. Teach me your way; your way is mine—if it leads to you; all other paths are dark, all other ways are strange. I know, for I have trodden them, and lost myself. Only the path you follow is lighted for me. All else is darkness. Love me. I ask no terms."
"Ailsa, I can offer none."
"I know. You have said so. That is enough. Besides, if you love me, nothing else matters. My life is not my own; it is yours. It has always been yours—only I did not know how completely. Now I have learned. . . . Why do you look at me so strangely? Are you afraid to take me for yourself? Do you think I do not know what I am saying? Do you not understand what the terror of these days without you has done to me? The inclination109 which lacked only courage lacks it no longer. I know what you have been, what you are. I ask nothing more of life than you."
"Dear," he said, "do you understand that I can never marry you?"
"Yes," she said steadily110. "I am not afraid."
In the silence the wooden shutter111 outside the window swung to with a slam in the rising breeze which had become a wind blowing fitfully under a wet gray sky. From above the roof there came a sudden tearing sound, which at first he believed to be the wind. It increased to a loud, confusing, swishing whistle, as though hundreds of sabres were being whirled in circles overhead.
Berkley rose, looking upward at the ceiling as the noise grew in volume like a torrent112 of water flowing over rocks.
Ailsa also had risen, laying one hand on his arm, listening intently.
"What is it?" she breathed.
"It is the noise made by thousands of bullets streaming through the air above us. It sounds like that in the rifle-pits. Listen!"
The strange, bewildering sound filled the room. And now, as the wind shifted, the steady rattle113 of musketry became suddenly audible. Another sound, sinister114, ominous115, broke on their ears, the clang of the seminary bell.
"Is it an attack on this place?" she asked anxiously. "What can we do? There are no troops here! I—I must go to my sick boys——"
Her heart stood still as a cannon4 thundered, followed by the fearful sound of the shell as it came tearing toward them. As it neared, the noise grew deafening116; the air vibrated with a rushing sound that rose to a shriek117.
Ailsa's hands grasped his arm; her ears seemed bursting with the abominable118 sound; pain darted119 through her temples, flashing into agony as a heavy jar shook the house, followed by a dazzling light and roar.
Boom! Boom! came the distant, sullen120 thunder, followed by the unmistakable whir of a Parrott shell. Suddenly shrapnel shells began to come over, screaming, exploding, filling the air with the rush and clatter121 of bullets.
"Lie down," he said. "You can't go out in this. It will veer122 off in a few moments, when they find out that they're shelling our hospitals."
"I've got to go," she repeated; "my boys won't understand why I don't come."
She turned and opened the door; he caught her in his arms, and she looked up and kissed him.
"Good-bye, dear," she whispered. "You mustn't detain me——"
"You shall not go outside——"
"I've got to. Be reasonable, dear. My sick are under fire."
The bugle123 was sounding now; his arms fell from her waist; she smiled at him, stepped outside, and started to run; and found him keeping pace between her and the west.
"You should not do that!" she panted, striving to pass him, but he kept his body in line with the incoming missiles. Suddenly he seized her and dropped flat with her as a shell plunged124 downward, exploding in a white cloud laced with flame through which the humming fragments scattered125.
As they rose to their knees in the dust they saw men gathering—soldiers of all arms, infantry126, dismounted cavalrymen, hospital guards, limping convalescents, officers armed' with rifles, waggon127 drivers, negroes.
"They're attacking our works at Cedar128 Springs," said an officer wearing one hand in a sling. "This hospital is in a bad place."
Ailsa clapped both hands over her ears as a shell blew up at the angle of an outhouse and the ground rocked violently; then, pale but composed, she sprang inside the hospital door and ran for her ward8.
It was full of pungent129 smoke; a Parrott shell had passed through a window, carrying everything away in its path, and had burst, terrifying the sick men lying there, but not injuring anybody.
And now a flare130 of light and a crash outside marked the descent of another shell. The confusion and panic among the wounded was terrible; ward-masters, nurses, surgeons, ran hither and thither131, striving to quiet the excited patients as shell after shell rushed yelling overhead or exploded with terrific force, raining its whirring iron fragments over roof and chimney.
Ailsa, calm and collected in the dreadful crisis, stood at the end of the ward, directing the unnerved stretcher bearers, superintending the carrying out of cots to the barns, which stood in the shelter of the rising ground along the course of the little stream.
Letty appeared from the corridor behind her; and Ailsa smiled and kissed her lightly on the cheek; and the blood came back to the girl's face in a passion of gratitude132 which even the terror of death could not lessen133 or check.
"Ailsa—darling—" she whispered; then shuddered134 in the violence of an explosion that shattered the window-glass beside her,
"We're taking them to the old barns, Letty," said Ailsa, steadying her voice. "Will you take charge here while I go to Colonel Arran?"
"They've taken him out," whispered Letty. "That ward is on fire. Everybody is out. W-what a cruel thing for our boys! Some of them were getting well! Can you come now?"
"As soon as they carry out young Spencer. He's the last. . . . Look from the window! They're trying to put out the fire with water in buckets. O—h!" as a shell struck and the flame flashed out through a geyser of sand and smoke.
"Come," murmured Letty. "I will stay if there is anything to stay for——"
"No, dear; we can go. Give me your hand; this smoke is horrible.
Everything is on fire, I think. . . . Hurry, Letty!"
She stumbled, half suffocated135, but Letty kept her hand fast and guided her to the outer air.
A company of cavalry, riding hard, passed in a whirlwind of dust. After them, clanking, thudding, pounding, tore a battery, horses on a dead run,
The west wing of the seminary was on fire; billows of sooty smoke rolled across the roof and blew downward over the ground where the forms of soldiers could be seen toiling136 to and fro with buckets.
Infantry now began to arrive, crowding the main road on the double quick, mounted officers cantering ahead. Long lines of them were swinging out east and west across the country, where a battery went into action wrapped in torrents137 of smoke.
Bullets swarmed138, singing above and around in every key, and the distracting racket of the shrapnel shells became continuous.
Ailsa and Letty ran, stooping, into the lane where the stretchers were being hurried across the little footbridge. As they crossed they saw a dead artilleryman lying in the water, a crimson thread wavering from his head to the surface. It was Arthur Wye; and Letty knew him, and halted, trembling; but Ailsa called to her in a frightened voice, for, confused by the smoke, they had come out in the rear of a battery among the caissons, and the stretchers had turned to the right, filing down into the hollow where the barns stood on the edge of a cedar grove139.
Already men were hard at work erecting140 hospital tents; the wounded lay on their stretchers, bloodless faces turned to the sky, the wind whipping their blankets and uncovering their naked, emaciated141 bodies. The faces of the dead had turned black.
"Good God!" said Dr. Benton as Letty and Ailsa came up, out of'breath, "we've got to get these sick men under shelter! Can you two girls keep their blankets from blowing away?"
They hurried from cot to cot, from mattress142 to mattress, from one heap of straw to another, from stretcher to stretcher, deftly143 replacing sheet and blanket, tucking them gently under, whispering courage, sometimes a gay jest or smiling admonition to the helpless men, soothing, petting, reassuring.
The medical director with his corps of aides worked furiously to get up the big tents. The smoke from the battery blew east and south, flowing into the hollow in sulphurous streams; the uproar144 from the musketry was terrific.
Ailsa, kneeling beside a stretcher to tuck in the blankets, looked up over her shoulder suddenly at Letty.
"Where did they take Colonel Arran?"
"I don't know, dear."
Ailsa rose from her knees and looked around her through the flying smoke; then she got wearily to her feet and began to make inquiries145. Nobody seemed to know anything about Colonel Arran.
Anxious, she threaded her way through the stretchers and the hurrying attendants, past the men who were erecting the tents, looking everywhere, making inquiries, until, under the trees by the stream, she saw a heap of straw on which a man was dying.
He died as she came up—a big, pallid, red-headed zouave, whose blanket, soaked with blood, bore dreadful witness of his end.
A Sister of Charity rose as though dazed.
"I could not stop the hemorrhage," she said in her soft, bewildered voice.
Together they turned back toward the mass of stretchers, moving with difficulty in the confusion. Letty, passing, glanced wanly146 at the Sister, then said to Ailsa:
"Colonel Arran is in the second barn on the hay. I am afraid he is dying."
Ailsa turned toward the barns and hurried across the trampled sod.
Through the half light within she peered about her, moving carefully among the wounded stretched out on the fragrant147 hay.
Colonel Arran lay alone in the light of a window high under the eaves.
"Oh, here you are!" she said gaily148. "I hear most most splendid things about you. I—" she stopped short, appalled149 at the terrible change that was coming over his face.
"I want to see—Phil—" he whispered.
"Yes—yes, I will find him," she said soothingly150; "I will go immediately and find him."
His head was moving slowly, monotonously151, from side to side.
"I want to see my boy," he murmured. "He is my son. I wish you to know it—my only son."
He lifted his brilliant eyes to Ailsa.
Twice he strove to speak, and could not, and she watched him, stunned152.
He made the supreme153 effort.
"Philip!" he gasped154; "our son! My little son! My little, little boy! I want him, Ailsa, I want him near me when I die!"
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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8
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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9
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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mortars
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| n.迫击炮( mortar的名词复数 )；砂浆；房产；研钵 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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12
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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13
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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14
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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16
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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17
dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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18
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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19
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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20
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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21
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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22
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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23
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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24
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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25
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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26
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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27
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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28
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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29
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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30
dressings
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| n.敷料剂；穿衣( dressing的名词复数 )；穿戴；（拌制色拉的）调料；（保护伤口的）敷料 | |
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31
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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32
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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33
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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34
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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35
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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36
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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37
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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38
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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39
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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40
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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41
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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42
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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43
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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44
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
roe
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| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
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46
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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47
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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48
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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50
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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52
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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53
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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54
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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55
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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56
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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57
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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58
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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59
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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60
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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61
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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62
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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63
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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64
whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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65
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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66
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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67
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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68
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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69
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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70
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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71
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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72
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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73
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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74
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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75
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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76
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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77
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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78
avowed
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|
| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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79
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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80
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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81
shuddering
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|
| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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82
physically
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|
| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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83
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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84
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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85
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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86
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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87
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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88
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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90
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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91
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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92
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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93
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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94
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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95
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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96
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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97
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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98
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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99
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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100
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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101
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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102
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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103
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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104
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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105
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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106
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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107
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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108
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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109
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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110
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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111
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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112
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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113
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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114
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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115
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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116
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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117
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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118
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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119
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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120
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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121
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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122
veer
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| vt.转向，顺时针转，改变；n.转向 | |
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123
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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124
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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125
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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126
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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127
waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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128
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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129
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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130
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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131
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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132
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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133
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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134
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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136
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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137
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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138
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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139
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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140
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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142
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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150
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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151
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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152
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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153
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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154
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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