"Go on, Hal," he said; "it is too late for you to be standing about, but I must speak to that poor Chateaumesnil. I shall see you at dinner." He went up to a wheeled chair that was being drawn by at the time. Its occupant was a man of large frame, as far as could be made out through the thick wrappings of furs; his head was bent forward and low, resting on his hands, that were crossed on a crutch-handle. He appeared profoundly unconscious of all that was passing, and never moved till Keene addressed him. Then, very slowly, he lifted up his face. Few of us, fortunately for those who have strong imaginations and weak nerves, see its like twice in a lifetime, or there would be wild work in dreamland. It was not distorted in any way, nor deformed, except by a ghastly, livid pallor; gaunt and drawn as the features were, they still bore evident traces of a rare manly beauty, that even the neglected beard of iron-gray could not conceal. But it was the savage face of one who has wrestled with physical pain till it has assumed almost the visible and tangible shape of a personal enemy--a mocking devil, that always is ready, with fresh ingenuity of torture, to answer and punish the rebellious question, "Art thou come to torment me before my time?" The lines on the forehead were so strongly marked and dreadfully distinct, that, like the markings of the locust, they seemed to form characters that might be read, if it were given to mortal cabalists to decipher the handwriting of God. Look once more: it is worth while, if you are curious in contrasts and comparisons. Five years ago that bowed, blasted cripple was the most reckless dare-devil, the most splendid Paladin, in all the army of Algiers; the man for whom, after an unusually brilliant exploit, St. Arnaud, loving him as his own right hand, could find no higher praise than to write in his dispatches, "_Les 3me Chasseurs se sont conduits en heros; leur chef-d'escadron en--Chateaumesnil._" And it was true that the annals of his house could boast of no nobler soldier, though they had been fighting hard since Clovis's day. His name is known very well in Africa. The _spahis_ talk of it still over their watch-fires, and the wild Bedouins load it with guttural curses--their lips white with hatred and remembered fear: they do not forget how far and fast they fled into their desert strong-holds, and never could shake off the light cloud of whirling dust that told how Armand and his stanch gaze-hounds were hard upon their trail. Rheumatic fever, coming close on a severe bullet wound, had brought him very near to death; and the first thing he heard when he began to recover, was that he would never stand upright again. He is answering Keene's salutation.