“But _sacré nom d’une pipe_!” cried Bigourdin—for Félise, after private and tearful perusal of the letter, was reading such parts of it aloud as were essential for family information—“What is the imbecile talking of? Where else, indeed, should he go?” Félise continued. Martin as yet unaware of Bigourdin’s return, sent him messages. “When you write, will you tell him I have given to France as much of myself as I’ve been allowed to? Half an arm isn’t much. _Mais c’est déjà quelque chose._” “_Quelque chose!_” cried Bigourdin. “But it is a sacred sacrifice. If I could get hold of that little bit of courageous arm I would give it to Monsieur le Curé and bid him nail it up as an object venerable and heroic in his parish church. _Ah! le pauvre garçon, le pauvre garçon_,” said he. “_Mais voyez-vous_, it is the English character that comes out in his letter. I have seen many English up there in the North. No longer can we Frenchmen talk of _le phlègme britannique_. The astounding revelation is the unconquerable English gaiety. _Jamais de longs visages._ If a decapitated English head could speak, it would launch you a whimsical smile and say: “What annoys me is that I can’t inhale a cigarette.” And here our good Martin makes a joke about the straw in the ambulance-train. _Mon Dieu!_ I know what it is, but it has never occurred to me to jest about it.” In the course of time Martin returned to Brantôme. The railway system of the country had been fairly adjusted in the parts of France that were distant from scenes of military operations. Bigourdin borrowed Monsieur le Maire’s big limousine which had not been commandeered—for the Mayor was on many committees in the Department and had to fly about from place to place and with Corinna and Félise and Fortinbras he met Martin’s train at Périgueux. As it steamed in a hand waved from a window below a familiar face. They rushed to the carriage steps and in a moment he was among them—in a woollen Kepi and incredibly torn blue-grey greatcoat and ragged red trousers, the unfilled arm of the coat dangling down idly. But it was a bronzed, clear-eyed man who met them, for all his war battering. Bigourdin welcomed him first, in his exuberant way, called him _mon brave, mon petit héros_, and hugged him. Fortinbras gripped his hand, after the English manner. Corinna, happy and smiling through glistening eyes, he kissed without more ado. And then he was free to greet Félise, who had remained a pace or two in the background. Her great, dark eyes were fixed upon him questioningly. She put out a hand and touched the empty sleeve. She read in his face what she had never read before. His one poor arm, stretched in an instinctive curve—with a little sobbing cry she threw herself blindly into his embrace.