The Hofrat came, summoned by Sister Berta. He had been there a half-hour earlier, and given a camphor injection; had scarcely been absent for more than the moment of the “short crossing.” “Ay,” said he simply, “he has it behind him now,” and lifted the stethoscope from Joachim’s breast. And he pressed both their hands, nodding his head; standing with them awhile by the bed, and looking into Joachim’s moveless visage, with the warrior beard. “Crazy young one,” he said: jerking his head towards the recumbent form. “Crazy chap. Would force it, you know⁠—of course, that’s the way of the service down there, all force, all compulsion⁠—he joined the service while he was febrile, he took a life-and-death chance. Field of honour, you know⁠—slipped away from us, and now he’s dead on the field. Honour was the death of him, and death⁠—well, you might put it the other way round too. At any rate, he’s gone⁠—‘had the honour to take his leave.’ A madman, a crazy chap.” And he left, tall and stooped, his neck-bone very prominent.