ation disclosed that the Chevalier was in the first
stages of brain fever, and he was at once conveyed to his berthroom.
Victor was inconsolable; the vicomte, thoughtful; and even the Comte
d'Herouville showed some interest.

"What brought this on?" asked Nicot, when the Chevalier was stretched
on his mattress.

The vicomte glanced significantly at Victor.

"He . . . The Chevalier has just passed through an extraordinary
mental strain," Victor stammered.

"Of what nature?" asked Nicot.

"Never mind what nature, Lieutenant," interrupted the vicomte. "It is
enough that he has brain fever. The question is, can you bring him
around?"

Nicot eyed his patient critically. "It is splendid flesh, but he has
been on a long debauch. I'll fetch my case and bleed him a bit."

"Poor lad!" said Victor. "God knows, he has been through enough
already. What if he should die?"

"Would he not prefer it so?" the vicomte asked. "Were I in his place I
should consider death a blessing in disguise. But do not worry; he
will pull out of it, if only for a day, in order to run his sword
through that fool of a D'Herouville. The Chevalier always keeps his
engagements. I will leave you now. I will call in the morning."

For two weeks the Chevalier's mind was without active thought or sense
of time. It was as if two weeks had been plucked from his allotment
without his knowledge or consent. Many a night Victor and Breton were
compelled to use force to hold the sick man on his mattress. He
horrified the nuns at evening prayer by shouting for wine, calling the
main at dice, or singing a camp song. At other times his laughter
broke the quiet of midnight or the stillness of dawn. But never in all
his ravings did he mention the marquis or the tragedy of the last rout.
Some secret consciousness locked his lips. Sometimes Brother Jacques
entered the berthroom and applied cold cloths, and rarely the young
priest failed to quiet the patient. Often Victor came in softly to
find the Chevalier sleeping that restless sleep of the fever-bound and
the priest, a hand propping his chin, lost in reverie. One night
Victor had been up with the Chevalier. The berthroom was close and
stifling. He left the invalid in Breton's care and sought the deck for
a breath of air, cold and damp though it was. Glancing up, he saw
Brother Jacques pacing the poop-deck, his hands clasped behind him, his
head bent forward, absorbed in thought. Victor