V

THE IMMORTALS

When I became conscious again I was lying on a table. Two men were
leaning over me; a third came up, holding a basin. There was an odor
of carbolic in the air.

The man with the basin made a horrid grimace when he caught my eye;
his face was a curious golden yellow, his eyes jet black, and at first
I took him for a fever phantom.

Then my bewildered eyes fastened on his scarlet fez, pulled down over
his left ear, the sky-blue Zouave jacket, with its bright-yellow
arabesques, the canvas breeches, leggings laced close over the thin
shins and ankles of an Arab. And I knew him for a soldier of African
riflemen, one of those brave children of the desert whom we called
"Turcos," and whose faith in the greatness of France has never
faltered since the first blue battalion of Africa was formed under the
eagles of the First Empire.

"Hallo, Mustapha!" I said, faintly; "what are they doing to me
now?"

The Turco's golden-bronze visage relaxed; he saluted me.

"Macache sabir," he said; "they picked a bullet from your spine, my
inspector."

An officer in the uniform of a staff-surgeon came around the table
where I was lying.

"Bon!" he exclaimed, eying me sharply through his gold-rimmed
glasses. "Can you feel your hind-legs now, young man?"

I could feel them all too intensely, and I said so.

The surgeon began to turn down his shirt-sleeves and button his cuffs,
saying, "You're lucky to have a pain in your legs." Turning to the
Turco, he added, "Lift him!" And the giant rifleman picked me up and
laid me in a long chair by the window.

"Your case is one of those amusing cases," continued the surgeon,
buckling on his sword and revolver; "very amusing, I assure you. As
for the bullet, I could have turned it out with a straw, only it
rested there _exactly_ where it stopped the use of those long legs of
yours!--a fine example of temporary reflex paralysis, and no
hemorrhage to speak of--nothing to swear about, young man. By-the-way,
you ought to go to bed for a few days."

He clasped his short baldric over his smartly buttoned tunic. The room
was shaking with the discharges of cannon.

"A millimetre farther and that bullet would have cracked your spine.
Remember that and keep off your feet. Ouf! The cannon are tuning up!"
as a terrible discharge shattered the glass in the window-panes beside
me.

"Where am I, doctor?" I asked.

"Parbleu, in Morsbronn! Can't you hear the orchestra, zim-bam