“There was a far greater capacity in him for suffering in that hellish fight than there was in Pete Leddy,” said Dr. Patterson.  “He had sensitiveness to impressions which was born in him, at the same time that a will of steel was born in him—­the sensitiveness of the mother, perhaps, and the will of the ancestor.  His life hung by a thread when we found him and his nerves had been twisted and tortured by the ordeal of that night.  And that isn’t all.  There was more than fighting.  Something that preceded the fight was even harder on him.  I knew from his look when he set out for Agua Fria that he was under a terrible strain; a strain worse than that of a few hours’ battle—­the kind that had been weighing day after day on the will that grimly sustained its weight.  And that wound in the head was very close, very, and it came at the moment when he collapsed in reaction after that last telling shot.  Something snapped then.  There was a fracture of the kind that only nature can set.  Will he come out of this delirium, you ask?  I don’t know.  Much depends upon whether that strain is over for good or if it is still pressing on his mind.  When he rises from his bed he may be himself or he may ride away madly into the face of the sun.  I don’t know.  Nobody on earth can know.”

“Yes, yes!” said John Wingfield, Sr. slowly.

In Jack’s wildest moments it was Mary’s voice that had the most telling effect.  However low she spoke he seemed always to recognize the tone and would greet it with a smile and frequently break into verses and scraps of remembered conversations of his boyhood exile in villa gardens.  One morning, when she and Dr. Patterson had entered the room together, Jack called out miserably: 

“Just killing, killing, killing!  What will Mary say to me, now?”

He raised his hands, fingers spread, and stared at them with a ghastly look.  She sprang to the bedside and seized them fast in hers, and bending very close to him, as if she would impart conviction with every quivering particle of her being, she said: 

“She thinks you splendid!  She is glad, glad!  It is just what she wanted you to do.  She wished every bullet that you fired luck—­luck for your sake, to speed it straight to the mark!”

He seemed to understand what she was saying, as one understands that shade is cool after the broiling torment of the sun.

“Luck will always come at your command, Mary!” he whispered, repeating his last words when he left the Ewold garden to go to the wars.

“And she wants you to rest—­just rest—­and not worry!”

This had the effect of a soothing draught.  Smilingly he fell back on the pillow and slept.

“You put some spirit into that!” said the doctor, after he and Mary had tiptoed out of the room; “a little of the spirit in keeping with a dark-eyed girl who lives in the land of the Eternal Painter.”

“All I had!” answered Mary, with simple earnestness.