d sweated. But he knew himself changed, and
sick at heart as he was, he could only guess at the depths of nervous
despair to which he must have fallen had he not taken the wondrous
draught.

There was that to the good. That to the good. He would live. And life
was the great thing after all; life and health, and strength. If he had
sold his soul, his country, his friends, at least he would live--if
naught happened to him to-night. If naught--but ah, the thought pierced
him to the heart. He who had proved himself in old days no mean soldier
in the field, who had won honour in more than one fight, felt his brow
grow damp, his knees grow flaccid, knew himself a coward. For the life
which he must risk was not the old life, but the new one which he had
bought so dearly; the new one for which he had given his soul, his
country, and his friends. And he dared not risk that! He dared not let
the winds of heaven blow too roughly on that! If aught befel him this
night, the irony of it! The mockery of it! The deadly, deadly folly of
it!

He sweated at the thought. He cursed, cursed frantically his folly in
omitting to give himself out for worse than he was; in omitting to take
to his bed early in the day! Then he might have kept it through the
night, through the fight; then he might have avoided risks. Now he felt
that every ball discharged at a venture must strike him; that if he
showed so much as his face at a window death must find its opportunity.
He would not have dared to pass through a street on a windy day now--for
if a tile fell it must fall on him. And he must fight! He must fight!

His manhood shrivelled within him at the thought. He shuddered. He was
still shuddering, when on the shutter which masked the casement came a
knock, thrice repeated. A cautious knock of which the mere sound implied
an understanding.

The Syndic remained motionless, glaring at the window. Everything on a
night like this, and to an uneasy conscience, menaced danger. At length
it occurred to him that the applicant might be Louis, whom he had sent
with the message to the Porte Neuve: and he took the lamp and went to
admit him, albeit reluctantly, for what did the booby mean by returning?
It was late, and only to open at this hour might, in the light cast by
after events, raise suspicions.

But it was not Louis. The lamp flickering in the draught of the doorway
disclosed a huge dusky form, glimmering metallic here and there, that in
a trice pu