Young Bansemer in his khaki uniform was not the immaculate, debonnaire man of the drawing-room. Service, though short, had been hard and gruelling. His face was even handsomer with its rugged lines and set features. He was thinner and browner; his eyes were clearer and a darker grey; his hair seemed thicker and fairer than before; his figure more erect and sinewy. The wistful look in his eyes seemed to betray hunger for action; his ever-ready eagerness to be on the move told of his strength and of his weakness. He had the lean, active bearing of the panther and the restless daring of that lithe animal. No man in the company had stood fire as valiantly as he. He courted the whiz of the bullet, scoffed at the rigours of the march, and instinctively was a good shot with the rifle. He bore no grudge against the department at home; he had no grievance. The officers recognised in him a man of parts, a man of station far above the position which he had chosen in the army. He was a source of mystery to the men of his own rank in the line-the ploughboys, the teamsters, the roustabouts, and the ne'erdowells who had gone into the army from choice or discretion. At first they had called him the "dude," and had laughed at his white hands and clean jaws. His indifference to their taunts annoyed them. One day he knocked down the biggest bully of the lot and walked away without even waiting to see whether he could arise after the blow. He simply glared at the next man who chaffed. It was enough. The company held him in a new respect that forbade the reporting of the incident to the officer of the day. Every night before he lay down to sleep, In the rice field or the barrios, he took from his pocket a leather case and gazed at the small portrait it sheltered. No one had been permitted to see him in his devotions, for that was what he called these sacred moments. His lean face, full of fierce energy all day long, softened as his eyes devoured the dainty miniature. On meeting their company, Connell reported the situation ahead, to his superior officer; orders were given for the men to bivouac for the night in a small village close at hand. That evening Bansemer was discovered leaning against the corner of a nipa shack some distance from his comrades, smoking silently while they talked and made merry behind him. He seldom joined in the ribald but suppressed conversations of the men. "Have you fellows ever noticed that he don't get any letters from the States-never seems to expect any?" asked Johnny Rogers, the one-time foundry man, who sat watching him. Graydon had not been the subject of conversation, but all knew whom Johnny meant by "he." "I've noticed that, too," said Joe Adams.