ty.' His eyes would gloat over them, and he would get up and
finger a long pistol, or old _papier-mache_ helmet. Never was a man who
so lacked _gene_--at home in any company; it inspired reverence, that
independence of his, which had survived twenty months of imprisonment
with those who, it is said, make their victims salute them--to such a
depth has their civilisation reached. One night he tried to tell about
the fright he had been given. The Boches--it seemed--had put him and two
others against a wall, and shot those other two. Holding up two tapering
fingers, he mumbled: '_Assassins--assassins! Ils vont en payer cher--les
Boches!_' But sometimes there was something almost beautiful in his
face, as if his soul had rushed from behind his eyes, to answer some
little kindness done to him, or greet some memory of the days before he
was 'done for'--_foutu_, as he called it.

One day he admitted a pain about his heart; and time, too, for at
moments he would look like death itself. His nurse, Corporal Mignan,
had long left his _'deux phenomenes!_' having drifted away on the tides
of the system, till he should break down again and drag through the
hospitals once more. Gray had a room to himself now; the arrogant
civilian's groaning at night disturbed the others. Yet, if you asked him
in the morning if he had slept well, he answered invariably,
'_Oui--oui--toujours, toujours!_' For, according to him, you see, he was
still strong; and he would double his arm and tap his very little
muscle, to show that he could work. But he did not believe it now, for
one day a 'Power,' dusting the men's writing-room, saw a letter on the
blotter, and with an ashamed eye read these words:--

_'Cher Oncle,_

_J'ai eu la rage contre toi, mais c'est passe maintenant. Je
veux seulement me reposer. Je ne peux pas me battre pour la
France--j'ai voulu travailler pour elle; mais on ne m'a pas
permi._

_Votre neveu, qui t'embrasse de loin.'_

_Seulement me reposer_--only to rest! Rest he will, soon, if eyes can
speak. Pass, and leave for ever that ravished France for whom he wished
to work--pass, without having seen again his _petite fille_. No more in
the corridor above the stove, no more in the little dining-room or the
avenue of pines will be seen his long, noiseless, lonely figure, or be
heard his thick stumbling cry:

_'Les Boches--ils vont en payer cher--les Boches!_'

1917.

IV

THE BRIGHT SIDE