up and saddle the Captain's horse, and make the Captain's coffee. It
was there, inevitable. And then, he thought, it was impossible. Yet they
would not leave him free. He must go and take the coffee to the
Captain. He was too stunned to understand it. He only knew it was
inevitable--inevitable however long he lay inert.

At last, after heaving at himself, for he seemed to be a mass of
inertia, he got up. But he had to force every one of his movements from
behind, with his will. He felt lost, and dazed, and helpless. Then
he clutched hold of the bed, the pain was so keen. And looking at his
thighs, he saw the darker bruises on his swarthy flesh and he knew that,
if he pressed one of his fingers on one of the bruises, he should faint.
But he did not want to faint---he did not want anybody to know. No one
should ever know. It was between him and the Captain. There were only
the two people in the world now--himself and the Captain.

Slowly, economically, he got dressed and forced himself to walk.
Everything was obscure, except just what he had his hands on. But he
managed to get through his work. The very pain revived his dull senses.
The worst remained yet. He took the tray and went up to the Captain's
room. The officer, pale and heavy, sat at the table. The orderly, as he
saluted, felt himself put out of existence. He stood still for a moment
submitting to his own nullification, then he gathered himself, seemed to
regain himself, and then the Captain began to grow vague, unreal, and
the younger soldier's heart beat up. He clung to this situation--that
the Captain did not exist--so that he himself might live. But when he
saw his officer's hand tremble as he took the coffee, he felt everything
falling shattered. And he went away, feeling as if he himself were
coming to pieces, disintegrated. And when the Captain was there on
horseback, giving orders, while he himself stood, with rifle and
knapsack, sick with pain, he felt as if he must shut his eyes--as if he
must shut his eyes on everything. It was only the long agony of marching
with a parched throat that filled him with one single, sleep-heavy
intention: to save himself.

II

He was getting used even to his parched throat. That the snowy peaks
were radiant among the sky, that the whity-green glacier-river
twisted through its pale shoals, in the valley below, seemed almost
supernatural. But he was going mad with fever and thirst. He plodded on
uncomplaining. H