The surgeon was smiling and so far pleased.  He was greatly interested in the case he was about to see.  It had excited some discussion as unusual, and the unusual in surgery or medicine has many times been the guide to broad highways of usefulness where the daring of the one has made easy the way for the many.  Now he meant to win the confidence of the man, if he proved sane enough to reason.  He might also have to make more complete his conquest of this coldly civil hostess.  It was for him an old game, and he played it with tact and skill.

She paused at the door.  “Pray wait a moment, Doctor.  No—­he has wakened, I hear him.”  He stopped her.

“Before we see the Colonel—­before I see him—­I want you to be heartily in accord with any decision we may reach.  There are but two courses which seem to me possible, and I do want you to feel sure that either you will have to watch a mind crumble hopelessly or, if we succeed, see one of those amazing recoveries which are like the dawning of day.  I say this most earnestly, because your hearty help may be wanted.  If he says no to our decision, his fate may really rest with your will to stand by me.”

This was pretty hard, and no time was given for discussion.  She looked up at the kind pleading face, and while feeling that she must yield, hesitated—­so distinctly hesitated that the surgeon’s brow became severely grave as the furrows between the eyes deepened in growing wonder.  He took her hand as if to get into some personal touch with a woman whose opposition he could not understand.  “You will help me?  In this man’s condition a word may win or lose a game in which the stake is a life—­oh, that is little—­or the restoration of a noble, useful mind.  I know you will help me.”

She looked down, and said faintly, “Yes.”

“Thank you.”  He smiled—­“Bless me! what a little hand,” he said, as he let it fall.

She opened the door and as he followed her, stepped aside, saying bravely, “Here is a friend, James.  You will like to see Dr. Askew.”

He took the chair she set at the bedside, while the Colonel regarded him suspiciously, saying, “I think I heard of you after Gettysburg.”

“Yes, I took care of General Hancock.  A lot of us went down to help.  Curious case his—­a ball hit the pommel of his saddle and drove a nail into his leg.”

“Yes, I heard of it.  It was thought they were firing nails—­queer that!”

Askew seized on the moment of illumined intelligence, wondering what dull surgeon had set in this man’s mind an obsession which forbade all other opinion.  “Hancock will suffer long—­but now, about you—­did no one think you could be relieved by an operation?  Take your time to answer me.”

Penhallow, groping in the confusion of remote memories, returned, “I seem to recall—­yes—­it was talked of—­”

“But not done?  Some one is responsible for these years of pain.  You do suffer?”