that the soul of the dying soldier has come through that door on its way to rejoin its regiment!
The Surgeon (nodding gravely). If I were a poet. (As he speaks the second door opens deliberately. He watches it with a smile; The Visitor with curious fascination.)
The Visitor. Gad! (The door closes of its own accord.)
The Visitor (repeating as if hypnotized). To rejoin its regiment!
The Surgeon (after a pause). You didn't notice—
The Visitor (sharply). What?
The Surgeon (mildly). To me—the room seemed somewhat lighter for an instant.
The Visitor. Bah!
The Surgeon. A poetic conception of yours: the soul joins the regiment of souls! All around us—above us—within us—the unseen host gathers its forces! (There is the very, very faint sound of a bugle in the distance.)
The Visitor (under his breath). Did you hear?
The Surgeon. I heard.
The Visitor. A bugle!
The Surgeon. Yes. (They listen, and gradually there commences a curious, hollow, rhythmic tramp. Very subdued at first, it increases
