M. Le Mesge waved his arm. The black slaves seized the body. In a few seconds, they slid the orichalch ghost into its painted wooden sheath. That was set on end and slid into its niche, beside the niche where an exactly similar sheath was labelled "Number 52." Upon finishing their task, they retired without a word. A draught of cold air from the door again made the flames of the copper torches flicker and threw great shadows about us. Morhange and I remained as motionless as the pale metal specters which surrounded us. Suddenly I pulled myself together and staggered forward to the niche beside that in which they just had laid the remains of the English major. I looked for the label. Supporting myself against the red marble wall, I read: "Number 52. Captain Laurent Deligne. Born at Paris, July 22, 1861. Died at Ahaggar, October 30, 1896." "Captain Deligne!" murmured Morhange. "He left Colomb-Béchar in 1895 for Timmimoun and no more has been heard of him since then." "Exactly," said M. Le Mesge, with a little nod of approval. "Number 51," read Morhange with chattering teeth. "Colonel von Wittman, born at Jena in 1855. Died at Ahaggar, May 1, 1896.... Colonel Wittman, the explorer of Kanem, who disappeared off Agadès." "Exactly," said M. Le Mesge again. "Number 50," I read in my turn, steadying myself against the wall, so as not to fall. "Marquis Alonzo d'Oliveira, born at Cadiz, February 21, 1868. Died at Ahaggar, February 1, 1896. Oliveira, who was going to Araouan." "Exactly," said M. Le Mesge again. "That Spaniard was one of the best educated. I used to have interesting discussions with him on the exact geographical position of the kingdom of Antée." "Number 49," said Morhange in a tone scarcely more than a whisper. "Lieutenant Woodhouse, born at Liverpool, September 16, 1870. Died at Ahaggar, October 4, 1895." "Hardly more than a child," said M. Le Mesge. "Number 48," I said. "Lieutenant Louis de Maillefeu, born at Provins, the...." I did not finish. My voice choked. Louis de Maillefeu, my best friend, the friend of my childhood and of Saint-Cyr.... I looked at him and recognized him under the metallic coating. Louis de Maillefeu! I laid my forehead against the cold wall and, with shaking shoulders, began to sob. I heard the muffled voice of Morhange speaking to the Professor: "Sir, this has lasted long enough. Let us make an end of it." "He wanted to know," said M. Le Mesge. "What am I to do?" I went up to him and seized his shoulders. "What happened to him? What did he die of?" "Just like the others," the Professor replied, "just like Lieutenant Woodhouse, like Captain Deligne, like Major Russell, like Colonel von Wittman, like the forty-seven of yesterday and all those of to-morrow." "Of what did they die?" Morhange demanded imperatively in his turn. The Professor looked at Morhange. I saw my comrade grow pale. "Of what did they die, sir? _They died of love_." And he added in a very low, very grave voice: