“Oh, Louis—­my poor little boy!” she cried, forgetting that he was drunk in her fear that he was ill.

“You think I’m drunk, ole girl—­not drunk ’tall, ole girl.”

“Well, get undressed and get into bed,” she said, trying to help.  He struck her hand away from his collar fiercely and, holding her arms twisted them until she had to beg him to let her go.

“Aft’ my papers,” he cried fiercely.  Then he seemed to recognize her and began to rave about his duty to England, and how England’s enemies had given him poison.

“I’m poisoned, ole girl.  I knew what it would be.  But when they sent for me I had to go.”

“Who sent for you?”

“They sent a note by King.  It came in by the English mail.  Th-th-they have t-t-to b-be s-so c-c-careful,” he said, and that was all he would tell her.  Soon he was fast asleep, breathing heavily, and she was wrestling with a sick disgust at his presence, a fright that he really had been in danger from enemies and the conviction that he was drunk and not poisoned.  She lay on the floor again this time because she could not bring herself to touch him or go near him.  His hands and face were dirty and he had definitely refused to wash them or let her wash them.  But in the middle of the night he woke up and began to shout for her.

“I wan’ my wife.  Where’s my wife?” he raved and groping till he found the candlestick knocked on the floor with it.  She sprung up hastily.

“Louis—­hush, dear.  You’re waking up all the poor boys who have to go to work at six o’clock,” she whispered.

“I wan’ my wife,” he cried, groping for her with his muddy hands.  She stood trembling by the bed.

“Louis, I can’t—­it isn’t a bit of use asking me.  I can’t be in bed beside you like this.”

“Glad ‘nough to las’ night!” he said, laughing into her face.  She felt the hot blood pumping to her skin until it seemed to her that even her hair must be blushing.  Then she went very cold as she walked blindly towards the door, only conscious that she must get anywhere away from him.

“I wan’ my wife.  She is my wife, isn’t she?  Dammit!  Wha’s a man’s wife for?  Marsh—­Marshlaise!  Damn Germ’s playing Marshlaise!  They’re aft’ me—­I knew they’d be aft’ me!  Marsh-shella?  Where’s my Marsh-ella?”

He pounded on the floor again, and she turned back, wrung by the terror in his voice.  She lighted two candles and he saw that she was by his side.

“I thought you’d left me,” he said, beginning to cry and streaking the tears about his face with his dirty hands.  She was shivering as she bent over him, her tears mingling with his.

“I’m here with you, dear,” she told him.

“Are you my wife?  Wan’ wom’n—­beau-ful whi’ shoulders!  N’est ce pas?  Parlez-vous Franshay, mam-selle?  Ah oui, oui.”

“Louis, you mustn’t, mustn’t talk that beastly French, please,” she sobbed.  He thumped on the floor, staring round wildly with glazed eyes.  There was a tap at the door.  Marcella, glad of any diversion, went and opened it.