“Ah-a-a!  Here he is!” he cried out suddenly, “Gully!”—­all eyes were centred on the flushed, unquiet face and restless hands.  There seemed a curious, morbid fascination in watching the workings of that sub-conscious mind.  “No use, Gully!  You can’t make it from there!”—­the twitching hands made a motion as of levelling a carbine—­“No use, man!  I’ve got you covered. . . .  You’ better give in! . . .”

He paused for a space, panting feverishly, then his eyes became wilder and his speech more rapid.

“No! no!  Gully!” he gasped out imploringly, “it’s Yorkey, I tell you—­oh, don’t pick off Yorkey! . . .  Drink? . . .”—­the unnaturally bright eyes stared unseeingly at the motionless figure of the O.C., standing at the foot of the cot—­“Not so much—­now—­since—­looking after him. . . .  Not a bad chap. . . .  We fought once. . . .  Yes, Sir! . . . had—­hell of a fight! . . .  Pax? . . . sure!—­bless you!—­buried ruddy hatchet—­auld lang syne—­Slavin. . . .  St. Agnes’ Eve! . . .  How he sings—!  Oh, shut up, Yorkey!—­Sings, I tell you—!  Hark! . . . that’s him singin’ now—­Listen! . . .  What? . . . it’s Stevenson’s ‘Requiem’. . . .  Burke!  Burke! . . . the ——­’s always singin’ that . . . goes—­”

And the weak, fretful voice shrilled up in a quavering falsetto—­

“Under the wide—­and—­starry sky Dig—­the grave, and—­let me—­lie; Glad did I—­live, and—­gladly die, And I laid—­me down with—­a w——­”

The shaky, pitiful tones died away in vague, incoherent mumblings.

Yorke uttered a queer choking sound in his throat, and turned his face away from the little group.  Slavin, in silent comprehending sympathy, laid a huge hand on the other’s shoulder to steady him.  In customary British fashion, the O.C. and the Inspector strove to mask their emotions under an exaggerated grimness of mien, only their eyes betraying their feelings.  The former, toying with his sweeping, fair moustache in agitated fashion, gazed drearily around the sick-room till his stern, yet kindly old eyes finally came to rest upon a framed scriptural quotation which was hanging on the wall above the head of the cot.

In corpulent, garish, black, red and gold German text the inscription ran: 

At even, when the sun was set, The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay; Oh in what divers pains they met!  Oh in what joy they went away!

Abstractedly, the old soldier read and re-read the verse till his eyes ached, and he was forced to lower them and meet the tell-tale ones of Kilbride.

The Doctor, with a final satisfied scrutiny of his patient’s wound, which he had laid bare, bade the nurse dress it afresh, then, beckoning to the others, he withdrew from the room, followed by the O.C. and his subordinates.  The Doctor’s first words reassured them in no little degree.