Jack studied him gravely, recalling the splendid physique and health of the young Guardsman six years earlier. The physique was in a sense the same; and the fine bearing of head and shoulders remained unaltered; but the sharpened delicacy and pallor of the face impressed Jack painfully, as did a streak of grey hair above the temple, a stamp of habitual lassitude upon the brow, and the thinness of the strongly-made right hand, which moved the pen. Jack began dimly to understand what the long waiting and patience of these years had been. Ivor seemed to become conscious of Jack’s gaze. He laid down his pen, glanced round, and started up. “Jack! Is it possible?” “Just arrived,” remarked Jack, with an _insouciance_ which he was far from feeling. “Come across Spain and France. Yes, wounded; but I’m getting all right. Always was a tough subject, you know.” “Where were you taken?” “On the march, at Lugo. Two days off from Coruña. Got too far ahead of my men. Wounded in the leg first; then, as I was defending myself, a musket-ball broke my right arm. So I had to give in.” “You are lame still. Sit down. You a prisoner, too! I hardly know how to believe it.” “Fortune of war, as our French friends would say. I’ve no right to complain. Had my share, though ’tis a shame to be cut off from more of it. Den, you’re looking very far from well.” Denham did not heed the words. “What of Roy?” he asked. “We have had no home-news for ages.” “Roy is Ensign in my Regiment. Didn’t you know even that? Been with me through this Campaign. He and I were in the Reserve—under _his_ eye”—in a lower voice. “You have heard——” “No particulars. The fact of a battle at Coruña—and—— Tell me all you can.” “You know that it was victory.” “I know!”—in a stirred deep tone. “Not from the papers. French papers never admit defeat. But—under him—how could it be otherwise?” “It never _was_ otherwise. Never—once!” Denham rested his face on both hands. “Tell me all you know. We are cut off from everything here.” Jack’s information was but partial. Before starting for France, he had been kept by his wounds some time in the neighbourhood of Lugo; and thus a few details of that heroic death had filtered round to him. It was hard work for Jack to repeat them in a steady voice. Once Ivor raised his head; and the dumb white sorrow of his look all but overcame Jack’s fortitude. Then Ivor returned to his former position, and Jack went on resolutely. “That’s about all,” he said at length. “As much as I’ve heard yet.... He was his own grand self to the last!... It was the death he would have chosen to die.... He always wished for it.... On the field—in the moment of victory! But the loss to us—to England!... The best—the noblest——” Jack could say no more. Silence followed. “Soult is a brave fellow. I heard that he was going to put up a memorial stone[1]—to _him_! The French know what he was.” Silence again. Denham had not stirred.