A trench torpedo had found its mark. And Corey, bending above him, had deliberately braced himself, holding his arms out, and had received in his stead the exploding pieces of shell. He raised himself on his elbow to look at Corey, unconscious, on the next stretcher. He wanted it understood. He sent for an orderly and dictated a message which he managed to sign, and despatched it post-haste to Staff Headquarters. And then he resigned himself to the hands of those about him. The news had come in to Jubécourt by telephone, and just before dawn Burke had gone up to see what could be done. When he reached the _poste_ Corey had regained consciousness, and was waiting for him. He had sent word ahead that he was coming. And Corey was wounded, Burke said, in a way no other man could have withstood. And the “queer” thing now was that he knew it, and when Burke leaned over him there was a gleam in his eyes as if he were keeping it there by his own will power. He seemed relieved then, and began at once—he had saved a surprising amount of strength—to speak. He knew Burke planned to go to New York, and he wanted him to deliver some papers. They were in his bag, at Jubécourt; he told him where he should find the key, and then he asked Burke to write down Mr. Ewing’s name and address. It was while Burke was crossing the dim, lamp-lighted room in search of a pencil or pen that some one had stopped him to say that the General was coming at eleven to confer upon Corey the _Medaille Militaire_. It had given Burke a distinct kind of shock. Could it be, he wondered, that _that_ was what Corey had saved himself for? For Corey knew, as well as they, that the _Medaille Militaire_ was the one decoration never conferred upon dead men. He had gone on and borrowed the pen, and on the way back had asked if he might be allowed to tell Corey. It might, he said, do him some good. That news had turned the balance for more than one man. But when, a few moments later, Burke, receiving permission, had told Corey his news, he had been for a moment afraid that the balance _had_ turned—and in the wrong way. Corey had seemed hardly to comprehend, and then a sudden unaccountable change had come over his face. “The _Medaille_!” he gasped. “What time did you say?” “Eleven,” Burke told him—“three hours from now.” He seemed then to be considering something deep within himself, so that Burke hardly heard when he said, “That’s time enough.” And Burke, thinking that he had been measuring his strength against the time, hastened a little awkwardly to reassure him. But Corey, ignoring his assurance, had seemed to arrive at some secret conclusion. “Did you put down the name?” he asked. Burke had forgotten the name, and Corey told him again, patiently, spelling out the address. He watched while Burke wrote. “The papers all go to him.” He was silent a moment. Then: “Listen,” he said. “Will you give him this message for me?” Burke promised, whatever he wished, word for word.