“And you think there is the smallest hope?” Jack said incredulously. He did not know that, at this very time or soon after, Major Charles Napier, taken prisoner in the Battle of Coruña, was generously released by Marshal Ney and sent to England, because he had there an old blind mother. The proviso was made only that he should count himself a prisoner on parole, debarred from fighting, until an exchange had been arranged for him, which in the course of a few months was done. Ney took this step on his own responsibility out of sheer kindliness of heart, not knowing whether the Emperor might not be seriously angry with his action. But the Emperor endorsed his decision with a readiness hardly to have been expected from that man of fire and blood. Even Napoleon was not so utterly bad in all respects as he was painted by some of his contemporaries. He might and did hate with a virulent hatred the British nation as a whole, he could be harsh to civilian détenus, and he was brutal to women; but to the individual English soldier he was quite capable of showing generosity. “I cannot tell. There is no certainty—none,” Lucille answered. “But, until I hear from my friend that all is hopeless, I will not give up hope. You will not say one word to the Colonel or to Mrs. Baron—least of all to Captain Ivor?” “Trust me—I’m staunch!” declared Jack. “Never do to raise his hopes for nothing.” Jack himself had not the faintest expectation of any result from Lucille’s efforts. None the less, he was gratified to be treated as her confidant. He liked her immensely and increasingly. As a matter of course Jack had taken up his abode under the same roof with the Barons. Roy’s former room was given to him, and he made a markedly cheerful addition to the family circle. One evening, some ten days later, they were together after dinner. Jack was dictating a letter to Molly, having pressed Lucille into his service as amanuensis. Whether the letter would ever reach its destination was doubtful; but Jack had resolved to send it off, and his right arm was still incapable. The Colonel was reading, his wife was working, and Denham for an hour past had not stirred or spoken. They all knew what this meant, and mercifully left him alone, speaking themselves in subdued tones. Jack’s glance wandered often towards the motionless figure in the sofa corner, and in the midst of his dictation he paused to murmur— “Head as bad as ever.” “Oui!” Lucille said with a sigh. “All day; and now he is quite ‘done,’ and can keep up no longer. It is always so. What am I to write next? Ah, I am called! Somebody wants me. Will you excuse—till I come back?” Jack amused himself during her absence by scrawling caricatures with his left hand upon the unfinished sheet. Then Lucille came swiftly in, running, as if with joy, while her eyes were full of tears. Her face seemed to shine, and a suppressed sob could be heard in her voice as she panted— “Something for Captain Ivor!”