Lieutenant stepped out of the cuartel. He stopped to look at the horse and the Maestro joined him.
The animal, a big gray, was standing with his four legs wide apart, like the tripod of a camera. His ribs stood out like the ribs of a long-stranded derelict; his legs were puffed up as big as barrels, and a viscous fluid oozed from his nostrils. A cloud of flies buzzed about this already half-carrion flesh.
The Maestro looked into the patient, bulging, blood-shot eyes.
"He will die?" he asked.
"Yes, they all die," said the officer.
"Why don't you have it shot?"
The officer smiled, a trifle embarrassed.
"Well," he said, "you know they're great on red-tape in the army. If the horse dies naturally, the post-surgeon can fill out a comparatively brief report; if he orders it shot, he will have to write out some five foolscap pages. The Doc, you know, is pretty lazy; so he chooses the short report."
"I see," said the Maestro.
They separated. The forlorn group at the church door drew a shrug of the shoulders from the officer. The Maestro stopped and approached it.
The woman nudged the man with her elbow. "The Maestro!" she whispered, awestruck.
