At last I found Dr. Khayme's tent, after having been directed wrong more than once. No one was there except a white servant; he told me that the Doctor, who was now at the field hospital, had been busy the whole of the preceding day and night in relieving the wounded; that he had taken no sleep at all. "I don't see how the Doctor stands what he goes through," said the man. "Yesterday the whole day long he was in the thick of it; he was in as great danger as the troops were; lots more than some of 'em. He said that the rebels wouldn't try to hit him; but for my part I wouldn't trust one of 'em as far as I could fling a bull by the tail; and him a tendin' to 'em just like they was our own men." This was not the first I had heard of the Doctor's disregard of danger. At Bull Run he was known to follow a charge and assist the wounded as they fell. I supposed that there was no use expostulating with a man who so firmly believed in the peculiar doctrines of his philosophy. About nightfall he came into the tent, rubbing his hands. "Good evening, Jones. I expected to see you here. I suppose you think you are going to stay with me several days?" "Why do you suppose so, Doctor?" "Oh, by this and that. Your brigade will have nothing to do this side of the Chickahominy." "I don't know anything about the Chickahominy," I replied. "You will know." "The brigade can be easy for some time, then?" "Any man can be easy for some time if he has been ordered on special duty not to be demanded for some time." "You know about my case?" "Yes." Dr. Khayme looked surprisingly fresh after having undergone such arduous labours; indeed, this little man's physical endurance and his mental power were to me matters for astonishment equally great. "Doctor," I said, "I hear you have been working very hard. You need rest and sleep." "Well," said he, "when I need rest I rest; when I need sleep I sleep; just now I want supper." After we had eaten he filled his pipe, and settled himself on a camp-stool. He got more comfort out of a camp-stool than any other man in the world. As I saw him sitting there, puffing slowly, his eyes filled with intelligent pleasure, his impassive features in perfect repose, I thought he looked the picture of contentment. I asked about Lydia. "Lydia will not rejoin me yet," said, he; "she wishes to be with me, but I prefer that she should remain in the hospital at Hampton until the army is concentrated. You will have some marching to do before you have any more fighting, and I don't think I'll send for her yet." "I suppose she can do as much good where she is," I said. "Yes, and save herself the worry of frequent marches. She can come to me when things are settled. However, I am not sure that we shall not demand her services here. But now tell me all about your last night's experience." When I had ended my narration, he said, "You will hereafter be called on to do more of such work." "I suppose so," said I. "Do you like it?"