What the little sister said was becoming to him only a pretty confusion of soft sounds; at moments he was too deaf to hear her voice at all; then he heard it and still believed it to be Ailsa who was speaking; then, for a, few seconds, reality cleared his clouded senses; he heard the steady thunder of the cannonade, the steady clattering splash of his squadron; felt the hot, dry wind scorching his stiffened cheek and scalp where the wound burned and throbbed under a clotted bandage. When the regiment halted to fill canteens the little sister washed and re-bandaged his face and head. It was a ragged slash running from the left ear across the cheek-bone and eyebrow into the hair above the temple--a deep, swollen, angry wound. "What _were_ you doing when you got this?" she asked in soft consternation, making him as comfortable as possible with the scanty resources of her medical satchel. Later, when the bugles sounded, she came back from somewhere down the line, suffered him to lift her up behind him, settled herself, slipped both arms confidently around his waist, and said: "So you are the soldier who took the Confederate battle flag? Why didn't you tell me? Ah--I know. The bravest never tell." "There is nothing to tell," he replied. "They captured a guidon from us. It evens the affair." She said, after a moment's thought; "It speaks well for a man to have his comrades praise him as yours praise you." "You mean the trooper Burgess," he said wearily. "He's always chattering." "All who spoke to me praised you," she observed. "Your colonel said: 'He does not understand what fear is. He is absolutely fearless.'" "My colonel has been misinformed, Sister. I am intelligent enough to be afraid--philosopher enough to realise that it doesn't help me. So nowadays I just go ahead." "Trusting in God," she murmured. He did not answer. "Is it not true, soldier?" But the fever was again transfiguring her into the shape of Ailsa Paige, and he remained shyly silent, fearing to disturb the vision--yet knowing vaguely that it was one. She sighed; later, in silence, she repeated some Credos and Hail Marys, her eyes fixed on space, the heavy cannonade dinning in her ears. All around her rode the Lancers, tall pennoned weapons swinging from stirrup and loop, bridles loose under their clasped hands. The men seemed stupefied with fatigue; yet every now and then they roused themselves to inquire after her comfort or to offer her a place behind them. She timidly asked Berkley if she tired him, but he begged her to stay, alarmed lest the vision of Ailsa depart with her; and she remained, feeling contented and secure in her drowsy fatigue. Colonel Arran dropped back from the head of the column once to ride beside her. He questioned her kindly; spoke to Berkley, also, asking with grave concern about his wound. And Berkley answered in his expressionless way that he did not suffer.