He was a man whose hair had turned grey already in the thankless
task of tying up wounds on battlefields where others reaped advancement
and glory.
"I want you to go at once and see Feraud. You know Lieut. Feraud? He
lives down the second street. It's but a step from here."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Wounded."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure!" cried D'Hubert. "I come from there."
"That's amusing," said the elderly surgeon. Amusing was his favourite
word; but the expression of his face when he pronounced it never
corresponded. He was a stolid man. "Come in," he added. "I'll get ready
in a moment."
"Thanks! I will. I want to wash my hands in your room."
Lieut. D'Hubert found the surgeon occupied in unscrewing his flute, and
packing the pieces methodically in a case. He turned his head.
"Water there--in the corner. Your hands do want washing."
"I've stopped the bleeding," said Lieut. D'Hubert. "But you had better
make haste. It's rather more than ten minutes ago, you know."
The surgeon did not hurry his movements.
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