The morning was alive in the hospital. The sun glinted in. Pale faces, lifted on their pillows, turned toward it; and Achilles, passing with light step between the rows, smiled at them. Alcibiades was better. They had told him, in the office, that he might talk to him to-day—a little while—and his face glowed with the joy of it.  
The boy hailed him, from far down the ward¹, his weak voice filled with gladness, and Achilles hurried. He dropped into the chair beside him and took the thin hand in his strong, dark one, holding it while he talked—gentle words, full of the morning and of going home. The boy’s eyes brightened, watching his father’s face.
 
“Pain—gone,” he said, “—all gone.” His hand lifted to his forehead.
 
Achilles bent² forward and touched it lightly, brushing the hair across it. “You are well now,” he said gratefully.
 
The boy smiled, his dark eyes fixed³ absently on his thoughts. “They—bad men!” he said abruptly⁴.
 
Achilles leaned forward with anxious look, but the boy’s eyes were clear. “They run down,” he said quietly, “—and go fast—like wind—I try—I run. They shout and hit cart—and swear—and I lie on ground.” His lifted eyes seemed to be looking up at some great object passing close above him... and a look of dread⁵ held them. He drew a quick breath. “They bad men—” he said. “Little girl cry!”
 
Achilles bent forward, holding his breath. “What was it—Alcie?”
 
The bo............