And this was the question upon which the men of Looe, and especially the Die-hards, hung breathless for the next few days. M. Trinquier produced his score; the musicianers came forward eagerly; Miller Penrose promised his waggon; the big drum arrived from Plymouth in the trader _Good Intent_, and was discharged upon the quay amid enthusiasm. The same afternoon, at four o'clock, M. Trinquier opened his first practice in the Town Hall, by playing over the air of the "Dead Marching Soul"--(to this the popular mouth had converted the name)--upon his cornet, just to give his pupils a general notion of it. The day had been a fine one, with just that suspicion of frost in the air which indicates winter on the warm south-western coast. While the musicians were assembling the Doctor stepped across the street to see how the invalid would take it. Fugler--a sharp-featured man of about fifty, good-looking, with blue eyes and a tinge of red in his hair--lay on his bed with his mouth firmly set and his eyes resting, wistfully almost, on the last wintry sunbeam that floated in by the geraniums on the window-ledge. He had not heard the news. For five days now he expected nothing but the end, and lay and waited for it stoically and with calm good temper. The Doctor took a seat by the bed-side, and put a question or two. They were answered by Mrs. Fugler, who moved about the small room quietly, removing, dusting and replacing the china ornaments on the chimneypiece. The sick man lay still, with his eyes upon the sunbeam. And then very quietly and distinctly the notes of M. Trinquier's key-bugle rose outside on the frosty air. The sick man started, and made as if to raise himself on his elbow, but quickly sank back again--perhaps from weakness, perhaps because he caught the Doctor's eye and the Doctor's reassuring nod. While he lay back and listened, a faint flush crept into his face, as though the blood ran quicker in his weak limbs; and his blue eyes took a new light altogether. "That's the tune, hey?" the Doctor asked. "That's the tune." "Dismal, ain't it?" "Ay, it's that." His fingers were beating time on the counterpane. "That's our new bandmaster. He's got to teach it to the rest, and you've got to hold out till they pick it up. Whew! I'd no idea music could be so dismal." "Hush 'ee, Doctor, do! till he've a-done. 'Tis like rain on blossom." The last notes fell. "Go you down, Doctor, and say my duty and will he please play it over once more, and Fugler'll gi'e 'em a run for their money." The Doctor went back to the Town Hall and delivered this _encore_, and M. Trinquier played his solo again; and in the middle of it Mr. Fugler dropped off into an easy sleep.