Going the other way were the poor wounded, on foot, in little groups of slowly moving twos and threes, and in jolting, springless army wagons—­on their way of torture to more torture in the rear.  His heart bled for them.  And the way those men took their suffering!  Sometimes the jolting wagons were too much for human endurance, and soldiers would pray for the driver, when he stopped, not to start again.  In one ambulance that he overtook, a man groaned.  “Grit your teeth,” said another, an old Irish sergeant, sternly—­“Grit your teeth; there’s others that’s hurt worse’n you.”  The Sergeant lifted his head, and a bandage showed that he was shot through the face, and Grafton heard not another sound.  But it was the slightly hurt—­the men shot in the leg or arm—­who made the most noise.  He had seen three men brought into the hospital from San Juan.  The surgeon took the one who was groaning.  He had a mere scratch on one leg.  Another was dressed, and while the third sat silently on a stool, still another was attended, and another, before the surgeon turned to the man who was so patiently awaiting his turn.

“Where are you hurt?”

The man pointed to his left side.

“Through?”

“Yes, sir.”

That day he had seen a soldier stagger out from the firing-line with half his face shot away and go staggering to the rear without aid.  On the way he met a mounted staff officer, and he raised his hand to his hatless, bleeding forehead, in a stern salute and, without a gesture for aid, staggered on.  The officer’s eyes filled with tears.

“Lieutenant,” said a trooper, just after the charge on the trenches, “I think I’m wounded.”

“Can you get to the rear without help?”

“I think I can, sir,” and he started.  After twenty paces he pitched forward—­dead.  His wound was through the heart.

At the divisional hospital were more lights, tents, surgeons, stripped figures on the tables under the lights; rows of figures in darkness outside the tents; and rows of muffled shapes behind; the smell of anaesthetics and cleansing fluids; heavy breathing, heavy groaning, and an occasional curse on the night air.

Beyond him was a stretch of moonlit road and coming toward him was a soldier, his arm in a sling, and staggering weakly from side to side.  With a start of pure gladness he saw that it was Crittenden, and he advanced with his hand outstretched.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“Oh, no,” said Crittenden, pointing to his hand and arm, but not mentioning the bullet through his chest.

“Oh, but I’m glad.  I thought you were gone sure when I saw you laid out on the hill.”

“Oh, I am all right,” he said, and his manner was as courteous as though he had been in a drawing-room; but, in spite of his nonchalance, Grafton saw him stagger when he moved off.

“I say, you oughtn’t to be walking,” he called.  “Let me help you,” but Crittenden waved him off.