Twice through the long forenoon he saw a little black-whiskered orderly, eyes dark and wide and deep, his nose sensitive and finely shaped, his shoulders unsoldierly. Once his cap fell as he went to lift a pan, and Peter saw as n.o.ble a brow as ever dignified a man. He went to him and, as he stood there, he found there was nothing to say.

"Who are you?" the other asked.

"That's what I was trying to think to ask you?" Peter said with a smile. "I am Mowbray, an American correspondent--"

"Why are you here?" He pointed to the cots.

"I had to do something."

"The misery called to you?"

"Perhaps. To be sure, I'd better say my own misery made me come."

They talked in French.

"It is all the same. You are not a beast."

"I'm not sure," said Peter.

"That is good, too. I'm glad you have come. All morning I have watched you...."

"You did not answer me. Who are you?"

"I am Moritz Abel."

He held a wash basin in one hand, a bit of linen in the other--this man who had done such a poem that the glory of the future flashed back through it, to sustain and to be held by men. It was a queer moment.

Facing each other, Mowbray thought of Spenski--as if the little lens- maker stood behind the narrow shoulders of the poet.... Was it only the little red-headed body that they had killed"? Would the immortal come back with a new story of the stars? Thus Peter found himself thinking of Spenski, with this lover of new Russia before him. And would the destroyers slay this one too?... Now his humanity came back in a cloud, and he shuddered at the thought of Russia murdering the man who wrote _We Are Free_.... Perhaps it was the woman in him that made him say:

"I hope _you_ live through the long night, Monsieur."

Chapter 8

Moritz Abel stepped nearer. In the silence Peter grew embarra.s.sed.

What he had said would sound without footing since the poet did not understand the trend of his thoughts. He meant to, add what _the long night_ signified, and wanted his saying really known for what it was--an utterance of pure pa.s.sion against the destruction of genius. The other replied, making all explanation unnecessary:

"I knew you for one of us. It is the long night, but it is a great honor for us to be here and at work."

"Where are your companions?"

The Russian smiled. "They are all about through the dark of the long night. We may only signal in pa.s.sing. In fact, I must go now--"

The surgeon in charge had entered. Peter went to Samarc's cot, steeling himself. "Samarc," he whispered, without bending, "Samarc--"

The wounded man stirred a little, moaned, but did not answer.... In the far corner Boylan was moving cots (occupants and all) closer together for the admission of more. His sleeves were rolled. Near him a little woman, whose waist was no larger than the white revelation of Boylan's forearm, was directing the way, the giant of the Polar Failure struggling to please. Something of ease and uplift had come to Peter from this, and from the pa.s.sing of Moritz Abel. Silently battling with Dabnitz, with Kohlvihr, with king's desire and the animal of men, was this service-thing greater than all, greater than death.... A soldier called and he went toward the voice. Presently Peter was jockeying him into good humor with low talk.

All day the battle tortured the southern distance--the cannonading nearer, as the hours waned. The Austrians were holding their own or better. It was the fiercest resistance which the Russian columns had as yet encountered. All afternoon wounded were brought back. It became more and more difficult to move among the cots in the building. So it was with all Judenbach that was not in ruins. Twice through the afternoon there were volleys in the court below; and when the two went forth for food, they saw a soldier carrying baskets of dirt from the street, and covering the stone flags close to the main building....

And from that grim house a little down the street, came at intervals, shocking their senses, the hideous outcry as of murder taking place.... Boylan went down into the field an hour before sunset, Peter back to the hospital.

"I'll see what I can find," Big Belt remarked. "You're right to go back, Peter. As for me, I can stand it better outdoors."

Crossing the street, it seemed to Peter that he had been in Judenbach certain ages, a reckonable s.p.a.ce of eternity--despite the lowering sun which calmly informed him that at this time yesterday the Austrians had found the range of Samarc's battery with a shrapnel or two. Many things had come to him. He wished as never before for a free cable....

Boylan came in at dark and drew him away from Samarc's cot.

"I'll be back to-night," Peter promised.

"...There's been no break in the check to-day," Big Belt reported.

"Kohlvihr's division, and the immediate forces surrounding, are part of the great right wing, and this right is holding up the whole Russian command. I heard Kohlvihr explaining to the Commander's aide that the Austrians here had been reinforced; that they gave us Judenbach for the taking yesterday, in order to fall back into the hills beyond. The center and left, it appears, is clear, ready to fight on to Berlin or Budapest, but the whole line is held up for this right wing. Kohlvihr is desperate. There'll be a hard pull to get across the hills to-morrow--all hands, Peter."

"This may be our last night in Judenbach then?"

"If killing a division will start a hole across that range of hills, it's our last night--"

I'll sit it out with Samarc," Peter said.

"Go to it, if you think best. You were a mighty sick woman this morning. Something in yonder helped you. I'll see you through for another treatment."

"Boylan, don't you stay up. You've roughed it to-day and been afield.

Don't let me spoil your sleep--with a big day ahead. It wasn't lack of sleep that got my nerve this morning--"

"Oh, I'll yap around till bedtime," said the other. "What does Samarc say?"

"Something has come over him. Some one came to him last night and seemed to drive a nail right into his thinking--pinned him."

"He's turned against the killing?"

"Yes. And he'll be restless to-night, sleeping so much to-day.... At least, he made the appearance of sleeping. I think he was shocked to hear his voice.... His eyes are right enough. But below--"

"What made you think he had the appearance of sleeping?"

"It just occurred to me. He didn't want to take all my time. I whispered his name several times--no answer. Once when I was leaving, his hand reached up and touched my coat."

"Is he hurt badly?"

"Not a thing in the body. It's between his throat and his eyes.... You know I saw him last night after the shrapnel as he lifted--it was just a sheet of blood. Afterward it was covered in cloth. I don't think he knew until this morning, when he started to talk."

"He was all knit to the little man," Boylan said. "As good a pair as I ever met afield.... Oh, I say, eat something--"

Peter smiled at the big fellow and turned to his soup and black bread.

He didn't say what he thought, but it had to do with his own field companion this time.

...Midnight. Boylan had gone back to quarters. Peter's ward was low- lit and still. ...The wounded man's hands waved before his bandage, as if to detract attention from the windy blur of his utterance. Samarc wanted to die.