"And men were scorched with great heat--and they repented not--repented
not."
A soft-stepping native orderly moved to the bedside and paused.
Instantly the wandering words were hushed.
"Bring me some water, Sammy," the same voice said huskily. "If you can't
take the sun out of the sky, you can give me a drink."
The native shook his head.
"The doctor will come soon," he said soothingly. "Have patience."
Patience! The word had no meaning for him in that inferno of suffering.
He moved his head, that searching spot of sunlight dancing in his eyes,
and cursed deep in his throat the man who kept him waiting.
Barely a minute later the doctor came--a quiet, bronzed man, level-eyed
and strong. He bent over the stricken figure on the bed, and drew the
tumbled covering up a little higher. He had just written "mortally
wounded" of this man on his hospital report, but there was nothing in
his manner to indicate that he had no hope for him.
"Get another pillow," he said to the native orderly. And to the dying
man: "That will take the sun out of your eyes. I see it is bothering
you."
"Curse the sun!" the parched lips gasped. "Can't you give me a drink?"
The eyes of the young soldier in the next bed scanned the doctor's face
anxiously. He, too, wanted a drink. He thirsted from the depths of his
soul. But he knew there was no water to be had. The supply had been cut
off hours before.
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