* * * *

There was a young man in hospital at the same time as Poivre, in an
advanced stage of consumption. Nature had never intended him to be a
soldier. He was a sturdy, well-made, good-looking young fellow, but with
the hidden seeds of that fell disease in his constitution which only
waited development. Had he been let alone in his little heritage in the
sunny south of France, he might have lived happily to at least a fair
age: but conscription, mercilessly enforced, not for defence of country,
but to gratify the satanic ambition of one man, seized upon him, and he
became a soldier, sorely against his will, in one of the armies of the
Peninsula.

It is always a marvel how men could stand the wear and tear of those
seven years of incessant warfare in that country. Yet the veteran
soldiers of France and England did stand it, and many lived to tell the
tale in after years to their children in quiet resting-places. But how
many, who survived, came home when all was over to suffer to their dying
day the effects of over-taxed energies?

Such was the case, though taken prisoner some time before all was over,
with Gaspard Berthier, who now lay broken-down in the prison hospital at
Norman Cross.

Marc Poivre was a rough comforter to him. Their berths were near each
other, and as Poivre was somewhat softened at first, he deigned to notice
the poor young fellow.

"That cough of yours, Gaspard," said he, "is very bad."

"I fear it annoys you," replied the other. "I am very sorry, but I
cannot help it. I wish I could, for my sake as well as others!"

"I think you might stop it more than you do," said a gruff voice from a
face of vinegar close by: "specially of nights."

"Don't vex the poor lad," said Poivre; "he won't be here long; his time
is very short."

"I am not so sure of that," replied Gaspard, with some animation. "I
thought your time was short, when they brought you in the other day in
such a pickle: but I was wrong, you see."

Poivre laughed; but added with more feeling than he usually shewed, "I
fear not, Gaspard; your last campaign is over, depend upon it."

A bright answer came to this doleful prophecy. "I am glad of it, for
then they will discharge me, and let me go home."

"He never ought to have been a soldier," growled the man of vinegar.

This remark was not relished by those of the patients who belonged to the
same yard as Gaspard--there were from thirty to forty in hospital all
told--