Once within the long marquee, however, Rosa was relieved to find that the casual spectacle was not different from that of the other seriously sick-wards.  A melancholy silence seemed to signalize the despair of the twoscore patients, each occupying a cot screened from the rest by thin canvas curtains.  Double lines of sentries guarded each opening of the marquee, so that no one could pass in or out without the rigidly vised order of the surgeon-in-chief.  Braziers of charcoal burned at the foot of each bed, while the atmosphere was heavy with a strong solution of carbolic acid, then just beginning to be recognized as a sovereign preventive of malarious vapors, and an antiseptic against the germs of disease.  Rosa inquired for the proteges she was seeking.  They were pointed out, on one side of the tent, the steward accompanying her to each cot.

“All have the small-pox?” she inquired, shuddering, as she glanced at the white screens, behind which an occasional plaintive groan could be heard.

“Oh, no! there are some here that have no more small-pox than I have.”

“Then why do you keep them here?” Rosa asked, indignantly.

“Oh, red tape, miss.  There’s two men that were brought here three months ago.  They’d no more small-pox than you have, miss; but they were assigned here, and I have given up trying to get them taken to the convalescent camp.  The truth, is the surgeon in charge is afraid to show up here.  The others make by the number they have in charge, for we are allowed extra pay and an extra ration for every case on hand.”

“Why, this is infamous!” Rosa cried.  “It is murder.  Why don’t you write to the—­the—­head man?”

“And get myself in the guard-house for my trouble?  No, thank you, miss.  I wouldn’t have spoken to you if it hadn’t been for the sympathy you showed coming in, and to sort o’ show you that you are not running so much danger as folks try to make you believe.”

Rosa had a basket on her arm filled with such comforting delicacies as the surgeon had advised.  She set about administering them to her brother’s orderly, when a feeble voice in a cot a few feet away fell upon her ear.  She started.  Though almost a whisper, there was a strange familiarity in the low tone.  She turned to the steward—­

“Who is in the third cot from here?”

“Let me see.  Oh, yes, number seven; that’s a man named Paling.”

“And the next?”

“Number eight; that’s a man named Jake, or Jakes, I’m blessed if I am certain.  They’ve been out of their head since they come.  They’re the two I spoke of who ain’t no more small-pox than I have.”

“May I see them?”

“Certainly.  I’ll see that they’re in shape for inspection, and call you.”

He disappeared behind the curtain and could be heard in a kindly, jovial tone: 

“There, sonny, keep kivered; the lady is coming to bring you something better than the doctor’s gruel, so lie still.”