He was an impressive figure, even clinging to the side of the jolting car. His body lithe and powerful; his hands lean and strong; his face, under the visor of the helmet, was d'Artagnan's own. A forehead high and bronzed. Eyes blue and both merry and ferocious. Cheeks high but rounded. His hair, only a little of it showing under the helmet, was black, but just enough grizzled to proclaim him in middle age. His mustache--it was a mustache of dreams and imagination--his mustache stuck out inches beyond the cheeks, and was wondrously twisted and curled. His medals proved him the survivor of many hard campaigns. Most officers when at the front wear only the ribbons of their decorations, if they have any, and leave the medals at home. But not d'Artagnan. He wore all of his medals, in a blazing row across his chest. And he had all that were possible for any man in his position to win. First came the African Colonial medal, then the medal for service in Indo-China. Next was the Médaille de Maroc. In the center was the Legion of Honor and then the Croix de Guerre, with four stars affixed, indicating the number of times during the present war, d'Artagnan has been mentioned in despatches for courage under fire. Finally came the only foreign medal--the Russian Cross of St. George--given by the Czar during the present war to a very few Frenchmen, and only "for great bravery." As d'Artagnan again stopped the car and we climbed out into the road, which had narrowed to a forest path, my companion pointed to the medals. "Our captain is a professional soldier, you see," he said. "He has fought all his life--didn't just come back when his class was called for this war." But I already knew that. How could d'Artagnan be anything but a soldier--a professional, if you please--but fighting for the love of it, and the glory? He tramped along in front of us, the spurs of his high boots jingling, and twirling the ends of his fierce mustaches. I glimpsed soldiers through the trees. Some came out to the path and saluted. To all d'Artagnan returned a salute with the same wonderful joy in it, as though it were the first salute of the day, or as if he were passing a general. There was the same swing outward of the arm, the same rigid formality of bringing his hand to the helmet. The pomposity of the salute he may have learned from Porthos, but the dignity, the impressiveness of it, belonged to d'Artagnan. His soldiers adored him; we could see that as we followed. Their eyes smiled and approved. And the stamp of great admiration was in their faces. "They would go through hell with him," said my companion. "A good many of them have. He is the favorite of his brigade." "He ought to be," I replied. "He is d'Artagnan." "D'Artagnan!" my companion cried. "Why, so he is. I never thought of it. But he _is_ d'Artagnan--alive and fighting."