“It is terribly logical,” murmured the young captain, “but,” he glanced at the unconscious figure in its mysterious and awful grief, “one needs to be God to indulge in logic to that point.” “And yet we are but men,” said the doctor, “and the problem is there before us--must be solved at once! In my place, what would you do?” The battalion-commander rose. He went up to his comrade and looked him in the eyes. “_Mon cher_,” he said solemnly, “God forbid that I should ever be in your place! I do not know.” The doctor turned to the young man. There was a terrible smile on his lips. “And you, _mon cher Jordan_?” The captain rose also. He also read the hell in the doctor’s eyes. He shook his head and shuddered. “_Mon ami_,” he replied, “I should go mad.” The doctor nodded grimly. “The terrible thing is that I cannot go mad,” he said. “I am still sane.--So you both decline the problem?” The two officers shook their heads, not trusting themselves to speech. The doctor turned away from them and covered his face with both hands. He reeled to the mantelpiece, leaned against it. They saw his body shake in the intensity of the nervous crisis which swept over him. “Marcelle!” he cried. “Marcelle!--if you are a living spirit, counsel me! Shall I avenge?” The watchers turned to the entranced woman as though involuntarily expecting a reply through her from that mysterious region where her soul was in touch with the long-past tragedy she had revealed. She still wept silently in that awful sleep which was no sleep. But no word passed her lips. Only the clock she held upon her lap struck one silvery note, marking the half-hour. At the sound the doctor turned from the fireplace and took up the clock. He gazed, with a passionate intensity, upon the inscription on the back. “Marcelle!” he murmured. “Our love ceases not when time itself shall cease! Though you are dead, that still lives--_that_ was not murdered!--I understand, _ma bien-aimée_, I understand!” He put the clock gently upon the mantelpiece and turned once more to the rigid, waiting figure. His comrades watched him, spell-bound, keying themselves to deduce his decision from the tone of his voice when he should speak. His stern face was set in an unfaltering resolve they could not penetrate. He lifted her hand.