among the dregs of the earth, while his mind haunted the home of his wife, a home in which another man was lord and master. Was it much to ask—one glimpse of his wife after twenty-seven years of renunciation?
"Miserable, selfish cur!" he murmured aloud as he melted a piece of wax in the flame of a match. "You would risk the happiness of your wife, your old friend, and their children—all absolutely innocent of wrong—for the sake of a minute's self-indulgence.… Be ashamed of yourself, you whining weakling.…"
It had become a habit of Légionnaire John Bull to talk to himself aloud, when alone—a habit he endeavoured to check as he had recently, on more than one occasion, found himself talking aloud in the company of others.
Having finished the polishing of his leather-work, he took his Lebel rifle from the rack and commenced to clean it. As he threw open the chamber, he paused, the bolt in his right hand, the rifle balanced in his left. Someone was running with great speed along the corridor toward the room. What was up? Was it a case of Faites le sac? Would the head of an excited and delighted Legionary be thrust in at the door with a yell of—"Aux armes! Faites le sac"?
The door burst open and in rushed Mikhail Kyrilovitch, bare-headed, coatless, with staring eyes and blanched cheeks.
"Save me, save me, Monsieur," he shrieked, rushing towards the old Legionary. "Save me—I am a woman.…"
"Good God!" ejaculated Legionary John Bull, involuntarily glancing from the face to the flat chest of the speaker.
