"Except yourself," Durant reminded him, almost involuntarily.
Again the wandering, uneasy eyes sought his. "You mean--that drain of
water," Ford said, with a total lack of shame or remorse. "Yes, it's
true Rotherby didn't have that. But it didn't make any difference, you
know. He was going to die. And the living come before the dead, eh,
doctor?"
Durant did not quite understand his tone, but he suffered the words to
go unchallenged. He was not there to discuss the higher morality with a
dying man. Moreover, he knew that the bare mention of water was a fiery
torture to him, disguise it as he might.
He sat a little longer, then rose to go. He fancied that there was a
shade less of restlessness about this man, whom he knew to be suffering
what no other man in the tent could have endured in silence.
In response to a sign he stooped to catch a few, low-spoken words.
"By-and-bye," said Private Ford, with husky self-assurance, "when it's
dark--or only moonlight--a man will creep out between the lines and
crawl down to the river, to get some water for--the children."
He was wandering again, Durant saw; and his pity mounted high.
"Perhaps, poor fellow; perhaps," he answered gently.
As he went away he heard again the droning, unconscious voice:
"And power was given unto him to scorch men with fire. And men were
scorched--with great heat. Eh, Sammy? Is that water you have there?
Quick! Give me--what? There is none? Then why the--why the--" There came
an abrupt pause; then a brief, dry chuckle that was like the crackling
of flame through dead twigs.
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