"I think I remember everything. I think I shall never forget it," he said, and lifted his hand feebly. Robert de Tremont took it. "Haven't we traveled far together, Tremont?" "Yes," nodded the other, affected, "but you must sleep now. We will talk about it over our cigars and liquors soon." Sabron smiled faintly. His clear mind was regaining its balance, and thoughts began to sweep over it cruelly fast. He looked at his rescuer, and to him the other's radiance meant simply that he was engaged to Miss Redmond. Of course that was natural. Sabron tried to accept it and to be glad for the happiness of the man who had rescued him. But as he thought this, he wondered why he had been rescued and shut his eyes so that Tremont might not see his weakness. He said hesitatingly: "I am haunted by a melody, a tune. Could you help me? It won't come." "It's not the _Marseillaise_?" asked the other, sitting down by his side and pulling Pitchouné's ears. "Oh, no!" "There will be singing in the ward shortly. A Red Cross nurse comes to sing to the patients. She may help you to remember." Sabron renounced in despair. Haunting, tantalizing in his brain and illusive, the notes began and stopped, began and stopped. He wanted to ask his friend a thousand questions. How he had come to him, why he had come to him, how he knew... He gave it all up and dozed, and while he slept the sweet sleep of those who are to recover, he heard the sound of a woman's voice in the distance, singing, one after another, familiar melodies, and finally he heard the _Kyrie Eleison_, and to its music Sabron again fell asleep. The next day he received a visitor. It was not an easy matter to introduce visitors to his bedside, for Pitchouné objected. Pitchouné received the Marquise d'Esclignac with great displeasure. "Is he a thoroughbred?" asked the Marquise d'Esclignac. "He has behaved like one," replied the officer. There was a silence. The Marquise d'Esclignac was wondering what her niece saw in the pale man so near still to the borders of the other world. "You will be leaving the army, of course," she murmured, looking at him interestedly. "Madame!" said the Capitaine de Sabron, with his blood--all that was in him--rising to his cheeks. "I mean that France has done nothing for you. France did not rescue you and you may feel like seeking a more--another career." Sabron could not reply. Her ribbons and flowers and jewels shook in his eyes like a kaleidoscope. His flush had made him more natural. In his invalid state, with his hair brushed back from his fine brow, there was something spiritual and beautiful about him. The Marquise d'Esclignac looked on a man who had been far and who had determined of his own accord to come back. She said more gently, putting her hand affectionately over his: "Get strong, Monsieur--get well. Eat all the good things we are making for you. I dare say that the army can not spare you. It needs brave hearts."