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“And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power was given unto him to scorch men with fire. And men were scorched with great heat, and blasphemed the name of God, which hath power over these plagues; and they repented not to give Him glory.”

The droning voice quivered and fell silent. Within the hospital tent, only the buzz of flies innumerable was audible. Without, there sounded near at hand the squeak of a sentry’s boots, and in the distance the clatter of the camp.

The man who lay dying was in a remote and quite detached sense aware of these things, but his fevered imagination had carried him beyond. He watched, as it were, the glowing pictures that came and went in his furnace of pain. These little details were to him but the distant humming of the spinning-wheel of time from which he was drawing ever farther and farther away. They did not touch that inner consciousness with which he saw his visions.

Now and then he turned his head sharply on the pillow, as an alien might turn at the sound of a familiar voice, but always, after listening intently, it came back to its old position, and the man’s restless eyes returned to the crack high up in the tent canvas through which the sun shone upon him like a piercing eye.

The occupant of the bed next to him watched him furtively, fascinated but uneasy. He was a young soldier of the simple country type, and the wild words that came now and again from the fevered lips startled him uncomfortably. He wished the dying man would cease his mutterings and let him sleep. But every time the prolonged silence seemed to indicate a final cessation of the nuisance, the droning voice took up the tale once more.

“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.

“No,” the doctor said gravely. “I can’t give it you yet. By-and-bye, perhaps—-“

“By-and-bye!” There was a dreadful sound like laughter in the husky voice.

The doctor laid a restraining hand on the man’s chest.

“Hush!” he said, in a lower tone. “It’s this sort of thing that shows what a fellow is made of. All these other poor chaps are children. But you, Ford, you are grown up, so to speak. I look to you to help me,–to set the example.”

“Example! Man alive!” A queer light danced like a mocking spirit in Private Ford’s eyes, and again he laughed–an exceeding bitter laugh. “I’ve been made an example of all my life,” he said. “I’ve sometimes thought it was what I was created for. Ah, thanks!” he added in a different tone, as the doctor raised him on the extra pillow. “You’re a brick, sir! Sit down a minute, will you? I want to talk to you.”