en dug, and there they slumbered, side by
side, French to the right, Germans to the left, their enmity forgotten
in their narrow bed.

Jean, without ever having seen them, had come to feel an interest in
certain among the patients. He would ask for tidings of them.

"And 'Poor boy,' how is he getting on to-day?"

This was a little soldier, a private in the 5th of the line, not
yet twenty years old, who had doubtless enlisted as a volunteer. The
by-name: "Poor boy" had been given him and had stuck because he always
used the words in speaking of himself, and when one day he was asked the
reason he replied that that was the name by which his mother had always
called him. Poor boy he was, in truth, for he was dying of pleurisy
brought on by a wound in his left side.

"Ah, poor fellow," replied Henriette, who had conceived a special
fondness for this one of her charges, "he is no better; he coughed all
the afternoon. It pained my heart to hear him."

"And your bear, Gutman, how about him?" pursued Jean, with a faint
smile. "Is the doctor's report more favorable?"

"Yes, he thinks he may be able to save his life. But the poor man
suffers dreadfully."

Although they both felt the deepest compassion for him, they never spoke
of Gutman but a smile of gentle amusement came to their lips. Almost
immediately upon entering on her duties at the hospital the young woman
had been shocked to recognize in that Bavarian soldier the features:
big blue eyes, red hair and beard and massive nose, of the man who had
carried her away in his arms the day they shot her husband at Bazeilles.
He recognized her as well, but could not speak; a musket ball, entering
at the back of the neck, had carried away half his tongue. For two days
she recoiled with horror, an involuntary shudder passed through her
frame, each time she had to approach his bed, but presently her heart
began to melt under the imploring, very gentle looks with which he
followed her movements in the room. Was he not the blood-splashed
monster, with eyes ablaze with furious rage, whose memory was ever
present to her mind? It cost her an effort to recognize him now in that
submissive, uncomplaining creature, who bore his terrible suffering with
such cheerful resignation. The nature of his affliction, which is not
of frequent occurrence, enlisted for him the sympathies of the entire
hospital. It was not even certain that his name was Gutman; he was
called so because the only sou