"All our light cavalry wear blue. Ah, _ma soeur_, seek the quarters of the lancers serving in the Light Brigade, and see if there is a letter for me. It will do me more good than all the doses of our Italian doctor." "Ah! you will be dosed by him no more." "I am truly glad to hear it. Some of his messes were vile enough." "Do not speak so ungratefully; but you know not what I mean or what has happened." "How?" "Poor _monsieur le docteur_ is dead." "Dead!" "He died of cholera in the cavalry camp yesterday. He had volunteered to attend the sick soldiers in the vale of Aladyn, and perished at his post among them." I was greatly shocked by this intelligence, which perhaps, it was not wise in my little nurse to afford me at such a time. When again I woke from sleep the shadows of evening were darkening the room; the trellis-work and Venetian lattices that had opened to the sunlit garden were closed now, and the sun had set. Sister Archange was seated in her usual place upon the low divan, but looking pale and exceedingly fatigued. She had been at the British cavalry camp, and she had seen my friends, but no letters had arrived for me, of that she was assured, as she had taken one of my cards from its case to show the commanding officer. "No letters?" I repeated, in a hollow tone. "No; but, _monsieur mon frère_, must take courage. Many, many ships have perished in a recent storm in the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora, and your letters may have gone to the bottom with the mail steamer. Monsieur Estoodome—_monsieur l’adjudant_ he is, I think, of your regiment—and _monsieur le colonel_, too, will ride over here to-morrow to see you. And now there must be no more talking, but to sleep, _mon ami_—to sleep. I must take care of you now, for _la soeur_ Archange will not be with you always." "What are you doing?" "Making the sign of the cross on your forehead, _mon frère_. To-morrow I shall tell you what it means, if you will remind me; but, for to-night, adieu." *CHAPTER XXXIII.* O fondest memories! come and go, Shine on sad times which are no more, As sunbeams gladden waters of snow, As wavelets kiss a barren shore: And light with love and tenderness The happy days which still are ours; Whose influence, rich in April showers, Casts round us love and tenderness. The clatter of spurs and scabbards, and the firmer tread of feet than one usually hears among the slipshod or slippered Moslems, next forenoon, announced the arrival of my friends, and most welcome to me was the appearance of Colonel Beverley, Studhome, Wilford, and Jocelyn of ours, all fearless of cholera, as they came through the verandah of the kiosk where I lay; and there, too, lingering without, I saw my faithful follower, Pitblado.