His lips formed with explanations and thoughts as he worked--the things he would tell Pidge, the way he would tell these things to Pidge. He placed the unconscious one down at the feet of a native doctor who was binding wounds, but often raising his eyes to heaven in prayer that the soldiers might not come back. Dicky stood up in the warm dark, lifted his helmet and mopped his forehead with his grimy right hand. He could actually smell what horses smelled (as he remembered in France and Arabia) when they snorted and ran aside.... The dead would never end--hundreds of dead--public square covered with dead. And what was pulling at his brain--something trying to gain admittance? He had it now. Pidge Musser was close again; close as she had come in the _Ashrama_--not weeping, horrified, not in the least dismayed or hopeless by all these lifeless ones on the ground, but the spirit of swift-handed helpfulness, utterly in accord with him in thought and purpose, no words being necessary. So this was why he had been standing in the dark with uncovered head, rubbing his hand over his brow--that her closeness might come through to him! Not so weird, after all, that he should know this, standing upon the soaked turf of the _maidan_. Things of this kind had often happened to soldiers on the battlefields of France. Was this what it was all about then--the separation, the struggling--at last to become connected to her this way, though across the world? He mustn’t study it too closely. He had a warning that he would spoil it, unless he kept on heartily with the work. So he continued separating the wounded, but every little while when his hands were free he would stop and uncover his head to the moist warmth of the evening. Would she come nearer and nearer through the years?... And these were her dead and her dying, and she had blessed the little Hindu girl with coarse black hair. He smiled at the absurdity of his thoughts. Now it was full dark and the cries of the living women across the _maidan_ were raised in agony because they must leave the Bagh before the curfew sounded. Hundreds were still searching. They had not found their own, but it was close to eight o’clock and this--the dead on the field--was what had come of breaking Martial Law to-day. It did not matter that lives might still be saved if the wounded could be taken out from the dead. _Sarkar_ had fired upon them to-day. _Sarkar_ would come with more death, if they disobeyed. Husbands dragged away the women whose faces turned back.