As I went toward the Doctor’s tent, my intense distaste for the work offered me seemed to lessen.  Perhaps the night air had some effect on me; perhaps the general’s parting words had soothed me; perhaps the mystery attaching to the council of war, so to speak, had exaggerated my fears at first, and now calmness had set in; at any rate, before I had reached the Doctor I was beginning to sympathize with General Morell, whose responsibility was so great, and whose evident desire to conciliate had touched me, and was wishing that I could have served him.  Then, too, the question came to me what would General Morell do in case my refusal was final?  And I had little doubt that the correct reply was:  He will command me.  And, in that ease, our relationship would be weakened unnecessarily; better go willingly than seem to go sullenly.  Yet, with all this, I had resolved that if any escape from this frightful duty should be presented, if any possible substitute could occur to the general’s mind, or if, by any means, the bitter extreme of mental suffering, and even—­I admitted it to myself—­of mental danger, could be avoided, I should not consent to serve.

To speak of this subject to Dr. Khayme would give me no embarrassment; I was sure of his full sympathy; but I was hampered by a doubt as to how much I should tell him of the necessity which prompted the demand for my work.  The three generals had spoken of important matters before me, or at least hinted at them, and General Morell had been still more communicative.  I made up my mind to say nothing of these matters to the Doctor.

When I reached the tent I found my old master yet busy at his writing.  As I entered he looked up at me, and immediately rose from his seat.

“You have been tried,” said he; “lie down and rest.”

He sat by me and felt my pulse.  Then he said, “You will do; it is only a momentary unsteadiness.”

Yet, if ever I saw alarm in any one’s eyes, that feeling was then in Dr. Khayme’s.

I had said nothing; I now started to speak, but the Doctor placed a finger on my lips, saying, “Not yet; I’ll do the talking for both of us.”

He rose and brought me water, and I drank.

Then he sat by me again, and said, “The fight which one must make with his will against impulse is not easy, especially with some natures; and a single defeat makes the fight harder.  To yield once is to become weaker, and to make it easy to yield,”

I understood.  He could read me.  He knew my weakness.  How he knew I could not know; nor did I care.  He was a profound soul; he knew the mind if ever yet mere man knew mind; he could read what was going on in the mind by the language of the features and the body.  Especially did he know me.  But possibly his knowledge was only general; he might infer, from apparent symptoms, that some mental trouble was now pressing hard upon me, and, without knowing the special nature of the trouble, might be prescribing the exercise of the will as a general remedy.  Yet it mattered nothing to me, at the moment, I thought, how he knew.