Most pitifully red and tear-stained though he was, he had evidently something important to say. He began abruptly: ‘I’m spakin’ God’s truth to ye, Sister, I tell you I saw him miself.’ ‘Saw whom, Murphy?’ ‘Yon man,’ waving toward the empty bed. ‘Don’t ye mind what he told ye about conspicuous gallantry?’ ‘Oh to be sure. You mean poor Donohue? But didn’t the doctor say he was delirious?’ ‘God’s truth,’ again said Murphy. ‘Do’-no-who was no man for lying. I’ll tell ye all I saw, Sister.’ ‘Don’t you think you had better try and sleep now? We can talk better in the morning.’ ‘Deed no, it’s little sleep I’ll get till me mind’s relaised,’ and poor Murphy looked so distressed and worried the Sister saw it was best to let him have his way. This is what he told her. ‘Do ye mind the day we was brought in? It was that fore-neune we’d had the biggest gaz battle that iver ye saw. Sure, we’d shtarted attackin’ finely. We Irish boys was with the Highlanders. We’d quit our trenches and was for dashing right across to the Boches, when all in a minute we seemed to come intil a gaz cloud. It set us shtrugglin’ and imprecatin’ and shplutterin’. Do’-no-who was beside me. We would have suffocated entoirely, so we got to runnin’. Do’-no-who, strong boy that he was, was prancin’ along past me, chokin’ and trying to git his mask fix’d on him, when he stopped all of a sudden. He might have been par’rlised. ‘“Come along,” ses I, what with the gaz. ‘“Divil a bit,” ses he. “I’ve just moinded the machane-gun. We’ve left it for the Boches.” ‘“How could we help ’t?” ses I. “Think o’ yiself and quit troublin’ about machane-guns.” ‘“I _am_ thinkin’ of miself,” ses Do’-no-who. “Sure I’m the boy that can fetch it out.” With that, he lept off and back into the gaz cloud, whilst I did nothin’—may the holy Virgin forgive me! I went on runnin’ and shtrugglin’ to get clear o’ the gaz which was killin’ me.’ Here Murphy broke down and sobbed aloud with the memory. ‘After a wee while,’ he went on presently, ‘whin I’d joined the boys and was for settin’ beside thim, where we was all coughin’ and chokin’ and shpittin’, I saw the stritcher bearers comin’ along. They had been pickin’ up several of us and on the last stritcher of all didn’t I see puir old Do’-no-who? Ooh! but he was pantin’ like a shteam roller and black in the face. ‘“Are ye dead?” ses I intil his ear as he passed me. ‘“I’m not,” he whishpor’d, “only spacheless.” ‘That was all, and I shtaggared on after them. ’Twas the divil’s own tramp to the dressin’ station. I could see them takin’ Do’-no-who in. After a while one of his stritcher bearers came out, so I got spakin’ till him. ‘“Yon’s a grand man,” ses he. ‘“He is. Where did ye find him?” ses I. “I lost him in the misht.”