He could do nothing with his pain, but in its tightest embraces, and
crying, he lay with his large red handkerchief over his eyes.
"Oh, Evan...!" I said. I couldn't do anything either.
"Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, dear...." he wailed in his plaintive Welsh
voice. "Oh, my dear leg, my poor leg...." He looked about nineteen.
"Couldn't I lie on my side?"
"No, it would make it bleed."
"Would it?" He was so docile and so unhappy. The tears had run down and
marked his pillow; I turned it, although the sergeant couldn't see.
"Will they give me something to make me sleep to-night?"
"Yes, Evan, at eight o'clock."
I said that because I was so sure of it, I had always seen it done. But
oh, I should have made more sure...!
He built on it, he leant all his hopes upon it; his little clenched
hands seemed to be holding my promise as firmly as though it had been my
hand.
And Sister said, "No, no ... it would be better not." "Oh, Sister, why
not...?" (I, the least of mortals, had made a promise belonging only to
the gods....)
"Oh, Sister, why not?"
Her reason was a good one: "He will want it more later in the night, and
he can't have it twice."