, only snatching a few
hours sleep occasionally in a tent which had now been erected for the
use of the nurses on duty. At the end of that time the struggle was over
and the victory won, and Cuthbert lay terribly weak and a mere shadow of
himself, but free from fever and with perfect consciousness in his eyes.

"How long have I been here?" he asked Mary.

"I think it is a fortnight to-day since you came in, Cuthbert," she
answered, quietly. "Thank God you are quite out of danger now, and the
doctor says all we have got to do is to build you up."

"You have had a hard time of it, child," he said, "though I knew nothing
else, I seemed to be conscious that you were always near me."

"I have had plenty of sleep, Cuthbert, and am perfectly well," she said,
cheerfully.

"Then your look belies you," he said, "but I know that it is no use
arguing. What has been happening outside?"

"Nothing. The troops were withdrawn the day after the fight when you
were wounded, and nothing has been done since."

"How is Dampierre getting on?" he asked.

"He is getting on well, I believe," she replied. "He was delirious and
so restless, and talked so loud that the doctor had him carried into
another ward so that you should not be disturbed by it. I have not seen
him since, but I hear he is going on very well. Your friend Rene has
been here twice--indeed he has been every day to inquire--but he was
only let in twice. He seems a very kind-hearted fellow and was very cut
up about you. I am sure he is very fond of you. He says that Monsieur
Goude and the other students have all been most anxious about you, and
that he comes as a sort of deputation from them all."

Rene had, indeed, quite won Mary's heat by the enthusiastic way in which
he had spoken of Cuthbert, and had quite looked forward to the little
chat she had with him every morning when he came to the ambulance for
news.

"He is a grand fellow, mademoiselle," he would say, with tears in his
eyes, "we all love him. He has such talents and such a great heart. It
is not till now that we quite know him. When a man is dying men speak of
things they would not tell otherwise. There are four or five that he has
helped, and who but for him must have given up their studies. The rest
of us had no idea of it. But when they knew how bad he was, first one
broke down and then another, and each told how generously he had come to
their aid and how delicately he had insisted upon helping them, ma