“I arrived late last night,” he explained. “And I have come to you this morning. I was so anxious to see you again.” “You are good to us. I knew you would come at once. We have been looking for you for some days.” Paule came in and clasped Jean’s hand. Her lovely black hair made her pale skin seem paler. Her dark eyes had lost their fire. Straighter and still prouder than she used to be, she cherished her broken heart in no humility. Full as he was of his sad story, Jean had time to read with surprise in the serious young face and in the stiff attitude of the body a lack of interest in life. Paule, also surprised, noticed the change in the young man. With the passage of time he had grown more sure, more resolute, more like Marcel. In the little country drawing-room, through whose closed venetians a ray of sunlight filtered, the hero who died for his country rose up from the African soil where he had lain to come back to his own people, recalled to life by the words of the narrator. He came back young, tall, thin, and muscular, his head borne high, his tone imperious, gifted with that physical superiority, that aptitude for command, that self-imposed calmness which are the outward signs of a leader of men. Jean looked at his photograph placed on the closed piano and crowned with a wreath of roses. He spoke of him as Marcel would have wished to be spoken of--simply and nobly. He had that rare gift of choosing the right word, which paints the truth with no undue softening, with no undue emphasis. His voice, though sweet and caressing in its sympathy with pain, still revealed the strength of the man beneath. It banished all weakness and despair. It encouraged and comforted and even found a solace in death. The two women, who wept on his arrival, kept their tears under control as they listened to him. He had not actually seen his friend fall. The day was beginning to dawn when, suddenly awakened by hearing the shots fired, he got up to summon his men. In spite of information received as to the safe condition of affairs, the little troop at Timmimun always slept completely dressed. As Berlier hastened to the point of danger, the Commander was attacking the Berabers, who had already gained a footing in the camp. “The sergeant who was at his side told me about his death. I was directing our defence on the left. He attacked them in front. Having routed them, he went in pursuit. He stood out a black silhouette against the first brightness of the dawn. The sergeant pointed out a little sandridge. There perhaps they were still hiding. As he stepped forward he put his hand to his head, stood still for an instant, and fell in a heap.” Madame Guibert hid her face in her hands and the tears gushed to Paule’s eyes, hard as she tried to master herself. “He did not stir,” continued the Captain. “He did not suffer. Death struck him full in the forehead. And he was thinking of his country, and of you.”