d
began to rave about his duty to England, and how England's enemies had
given him poison.

"I'm poisoned, ole girl. I knew what it would be. But when they sent for
me I had to go."

"Who sent for you?"

"They sent a note by King. It came in by the English mail. Th-th-they
have t-t-to b-be s-so c-c-careful," he said, and that was all he would
tell her. Soon he was fast asleep, breathing heavily, and she was
wrestling with a sick disgust at his presence, a fright that he really
had been in danger from enemies and the conviction that he was drunk and
not poisoned. She lay on the floor again this time because she could not
bring herself to touch him or go near him. His hands and face were dirty
and he had definitely refused to wash them or let her wash them. But in
the middle of the night he woke up and began to shout for her.

"I wan' my wife. Where's my wife?" he raved and groping till he found
the candlestick knocked on the floor with it. She sprung up hastily.

"Louis--hush, dear. You're waking up all the poor boys who have to go
to work at six o'clock," she whispered.

"I wan' my wife," he cried, groping for her with his muddy hands. She
stood trembling by the bed.

"Louis, I can't--it isn't a bit of use asking me. I can't be in bed
beside you like this."

"Glad 'nough to las' night!" he said, laughing into her face. She felt
the hot blood pumping to her skin until it seemed to her that even her
hair must be blushing. Then she went very cold as she walked blindly
towards the door, only conscious that she must get anywhere away from
him.

"I wan' my wife. She is my wife, isn't she? Dammit! Wha's a man's wife
for? Marsh--Marshlaise! Damn Germ's playing Marshlaise! They're aft'
me--I knew they'd be aft' me! Marsh-shella? Where's my Marsh-ella?"

He pounded on the floor again, and she turned back, wrung by the terror
in his voice. She lighted two candles and he saw that she was by his
side.

"I thought you'd left me," he said, beginning to cry and streaking the
tears about his face with his dirty hands. She was shivering as she bent
over him, her tears mingling with his.

"I'm here with you, dear," she told him.

"Are you my wife? Wan' wom'n--beau-ful whi' shoulders! N'est ce pas?
Parlez-vous Franshay, mam-selle? Ah oui, oui."

"Louis, you mustn't, _mustn't_ talk that beastly French, please," she
sobbed. He thumped on the floor, staring round wildly with glazed eyes.
There was a tap at the door. Marcell