"Lieutenant Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves, heard somehow that you were here, suffering under a perilous illness. An Italian surgeon chanced to mention it at the Restaurant de l’Armée d’Orient, and they brought me here. We are in the house of a rich Armenian trader—a good Christian, after his own fashion; but, O Sacre Coeur! what an odd fashion it is!" "Ah! mademoiselle——" "I am Archange, of the Order of Charity." "Well, Sister Archange, you are really an angel!" "Oh, fie! don’t say so! You must think very poorly, very meanly, of me to give me a title I dare not hope to merit, even by a thousand actions such as attending you." "Pardon me; I did but—but say what I thought." "You are a child, and thought wrong," she replied, with playful asperity. "But you have already spoken too much for one who is only beginning to recover; so try to sleep, _mon frère_." And, waving her hand with a pretty gesture of authority, she resumed her missal, and read on in silence. I slept for a time—I know not how long—it might have been an hour, or perhaps two: but, when I looked up, she was still seated, motionless and reading. "_Ma soeur!_" said I, as our eyes met, and my heart swelled with gratitude for her generous watchfulness; and she came hastily towards me. "_Mon frère_, what do you want?" "You mistook my meaning when I called you an angel, and were angry with me." "Angry?—I? Ah, no! no! Don’t say so—I am never angry; it would not do for me to be so now." "But I think you quite a saint to watch me thus." "You must not say that either." "You are so good, and I so unworthy." "Good I may be thought, monsieur; but I shall never be a saint, like Father Vincent de Paul—I am too wicked for that," she added, laughing merrily; "but I try to be as good as I can." "Have any letters come here for me?" "Letters!" she said, with alarm in her fine eyes, and withdrawing a pace. "Yes; I am so anxious for them." "Ah! now you are beginning to rave again. In your pain and delirium you always raved about letters." "There are, then, none?" said I, with a groan. "I shall see, _mon frère_," and, in the kindness of her heart, after pretending to search for what she too well knew were not to be found, she came again to my bedside, and said there would, perhaps, be some to-morrow. "Still no letter!" I exclaimed, sadly, with tears in my eyes. She laid a soft hand caressingly on my brow. I besought her, in the most moving terms, to inquire if there were any letters for me at our cantonments in the vale of Aladyn, heedless of the distance and of the trouble I gave her; for I thought only of Louisa Loftus, and that her answer to my Gallipoli missive might have reached the regiment during my illness and absence. "Monsieur, then, belongs to the English service?" "No." "The Osmanli army, then?" "No, mademoiselle; I belong to the British," said I. "Ah! true. But your uniform is not red?"