"Do you know when they'll be able to dress my wound?"
"To-night. Lie down in the straw."
I lay down where I was. Suddenly I heard a voice, at once infantile and
yet grave, in my ear:
"You wounded?" it said, with a strange accent.
I turned and found a tall negro lying by my side. I could see nothing
of him but two shining eyes.
"Yes, I'm wounded, Sidi. You too?"
"Yes, me wounded."
He appeared to reflect for a moment:
"Blacks ... wounded, wounded, wounded ... and then killed ... killed
... killed ... Boches ... oh! many, many Boches ... William!"
"Ah! so you've heard of William?"
"William ... bad chief ... lot of women ... many women!... ah!..."
He paused an instant and then continued:
"He many women ... big, bad chief ... like way back there ... back
there ... killed the women ... cut ... cut.... Whish!... like that!..."
"Why?"
"Bad ... ah!... he got big house ... put women's heads on top ... on
roof.... Ah, bad...."
He searched for words:
"Yes, put heads of women--many women--on roof of house ... bad, very
bad...."
I was in too much pain to sleep, and had perforce to listen to his
childish babble.
"So ... down there ... bad chief stick women's heads on roof ... not
good, no!... down there!..."
And then the Senegalese began to speak in his own language, a lisping,
sweet-sounding tongue. Perhaps he was delirious.
I felt cold, but nevertheless, after a time, found my eyelids growing
heavy. Covering my legs with straw as best I could I stretched myself
out and went to sleep.
* * * * *
It was still night when I awoke, and a thin rain, or rather drizzle,
was falling. I was colder than ever, and my wound pained me severely.
The veranda was still lit up. I could see the shadowy form of the negro
lying next to me, but could no longer hear his breathing. I stretched
out my hand and felt his. It was icy cold. The straw under me seemed
wet. I looked, and discovered that my feet were lying in a pool of
blood.
I stood up. The severely wounded had now been dressed. A fire had been
lit in the kitchen of the farmhouse, and a white-faced Algerian was
dozing in front of it. On the mantelpiece an alarum clock, standing
between two brass candlesticks, marked two o'clock.
I had my wound dressed. It appeared that after all it would not be
necessary to amputate my thumb. A N.C.O. took down my name, and on
the cloth band which held my arm in a sling pinned a hospital ticket:
"Severe shrapnel wound in left hand. To be invalided back, sitting."