And so on that his second night of vigil by the side of a dying man, though he recognized speech as a danger, he made no effort to silence him.  He knew that weariness of the spirit that finds no vent was a greater danger still.

“So you think I have a future before me?” he said.

“I am sure of it.”  Bertrand spoke with conviction.  “It will not be an easy future, mon ami.  Perhaps it will not be happy.  Those who climb have no time to gather the flowers by the way.  But—­it will be great.  You desire that, yes?”

“In a fashion,” Max said.  “I don’t know that I consider greatness in itself as specially valuable.  Do you?”

“I?” said Bertrand.  “But I have passed all that.  There was a time when ambition was to me as the breath of life.  I thought of nothing else.  And then”—­his voice dropped a little—­“there came a greater thing—­the greatest of all.  And I knew that I had climbed above ambition.  I knew success and fame as a procession that passes—­that passes—­the mirage in the desert—­the dream in the midst of our great Reality.  I knew all this before my ruin came.  It was as if a light had suddenly been held up, and I saw the work of my life as pictures in the sand.  Then the great tide rushed up, and all was washed away.  But yet”—­his voice vibrated, he looked at Max and smiled—­“the light remained.  For a time, indeed, I was blind, but the light came back to me.  And I know now that it was always there.”

He paused, and turned his head sharply.

“What is it?” said Max.

“I heard a sound.”

“There are plenty of sounds in this place,” Max pointed out.

“Ah! but this was different.  It sounded like—­” He stopped with a gasp that made Max frown.

Undoubtedly there was a sound outside, the tread of feet, the jingle of a sword.  Max got up, still frowning, and went to the door.

He had barely reached it before there came a loud knock upon the panels, and a voice cried:  “Ouvrez!”

Max’s knowledge of French was exceedingly limited, but that fact by no means dismayed him.  He turned round to Bertrand for a moment.

“I’m going to have a talk with this johnny.  Don’t agitate yourself.  You are not to move till I come back.”

“Ouvrez!” cried the voice again.

“All right?” questioned Max.

Bertrand was leaning forward.  His eyes were very bright, his breathing very short.  “They have come—­to take me,” he said.

“I’ll see them damned first,” said Max.  “You keep still, and leave it to me.”

His hand was on the door with the words.  A moment more he stood, thick-set and British, looking back.  Then with a curt nod, he opened the door, and passed instantly out, pulling it after him.

Half a dozen soldiers filled the passage.  The one who had knocked—­an officer—­stood face to face with him.

“Now what do you want?” asked Max.