y;--the tall daughter of a
Norwegian sea captain had once become the wife of a Florane.
Viosca?--who ever knew a Viosca with such hair? Yet again, these
Spanish emigrants sometimes married blonde German girls ... Might be a
case of atavism, too. Who was this Viosca? If that was his wife,--the
little brown Carmen,--whence Chita's sunny hair? ...

And this was part of that same desolate shore whither the Last Island
dead had been drifted by that tremendous surge! On a clear day, with a
good glass, one might discern from here the long blue streak of that
ghastly coast ... Somewhere--between here and there ... Merciful God!
...

... But again! That bivouac-night before the fight at
Chancellorsville, Laroussel had begun to tell him such a singular story
... Chance had brought them,--the old enemies,--together; made them
dear friends in the face of Death. How little he had comprehended the
man!--what a brave, true, simple soul went up that day to the Lord of
Battles! ... What was it--that story about the little Creole girl saved
from Last Island,--that story which was never finished? ... Eh! what a
pain!

Evidently he had worked too much, slept too little. A decided case of
nervous prostration. He must lie down, and try to sleep.

These pains in the head and back were becoming unbearable. Nothing but
rest could avail him now.

He stretched himself under the mosquito curtain. It was very still,
breathless, hot! The venomous insects were thick;--they filled the room
with a continuous ebullient sound, as if invisible kettles were boiling
overhead. A sign of storm.... Still, it was strange!--he could not
perspire ...

Then it seemed to him that Laroussel was bending over him--Laroussel in
his cavalry uniform. "Bon jour, camarade!--nous allons avoir un bien
mauvais temps, mon pauvre Julien." How! bad weather?--"Comment un
mauvais temps?" ... He looked in Laroussel's face. There was something
so singular in his smile. Ah! yes,--he remembered now: it was the
wound! ... "Un vilain temps!" whispered Laroussel. Then he was gone
... Whither?

--"Cheri!" ...

The whisper roused him with a fearful start ... Adele's whisper! So she
was wont to rouse him sometimes in the old sweet nights,--to crave some
little attention for ailing Eulalie,--to make some little confidence
she had forgotten to utter during the happy evening ... No, no! It was
only the trees. The sky was clouding over. The wind was rising ...
How