slowly in volume, without in the least accelerating its precise, martial rhythm. It grows louder, and louder, and louder; and nearer. The building seems to vibrate with the rhythmically recurrent footfall. The Visitor rushes to the windows. He peers out. Then, in a tone of awe:)
The Visitor. Fog! Nothing but fog! (Utterly bewildered, he turns. The tramping swells into a climax. Then, more quickly than it has grown, ebbs into silence.)
The Visitor (breathlessly). What was it?
The Surgeon. A regiment marching by.
The Visitor. But the tramp? The hollow tramp?
The Surgeon (very matter of fact). I told you—there is a board pavement.
The Visitor (breaking into a high-pitched, hysterical laugh). So there is! So there is! (The second door opens, and The Orderly, very much excited, stands on the threshold.)
The Orderly. Doctor!
The Surgeon. Yes?
The Ordely. The boy—the boy who saw the angels—where is he?
The Surgeon. In there.
The Orderly. You are sure? (The men look at each other silently.)
The Surgeon. Why do you ask?
The Orderly. I saw him!
