“Yes; on the table.”

“You are quite sure the bastion is mined, comrade?”

This unexpected word and Raynal’s gentle appeal touched Dujardin deeply.  It was in a broken voice he replied that he was unfortunately too sure of it.

Raynal received this reply as a sentence of death, and without another word walked slowly into Dujardin’s tent.

Dujardin’s generosity was up in arms; he followed Raynal, and said eagerly, “Raynal, for Heaven’s sake resign this command!”

“Allow me to write to my wife, colonel,” was the cold reply.

Camille winced at this affront, and drew back a moment; but his nobler part prevailed.  He seized Raynal by the wrist.  “You shall not affront me, you cannot affront me.  You go to certain death I tell you, if you attack that bastion.”

“Don’t be a fool, colonel,” said Raynal:  “somebody must lead the men.”

“Yes; but not you.  Who has so good a right to lead them as I, their colonel?”

“And be killed in my place, eh?”

“I know the ground better than you,” said Camille.  “Besides, who cares for me?  I have no friends, no family.  But you are married—­and so many will mourn if you”—­

Raynal interrupted him sternly.  “You forget, sir, that Rose de Beaurepaire is my sister, when you tell me you have no tie to life.”  He added, with wonderful dignity and sobriety, “Allow me to write to my wife, sir; and, while I write, reflect that you can embitter an old comrade’s last moments by persisting in your refusal to restore his sister the honor you have robbed her of.”

And leaving the other staggered and confused by this sudden blow, he retired into Dujardin’s tent, and finding writing materials on a little table that was there, sat down to pen a line to Josephine.

Camille knew to whom he was writing, and a jealous pang passed through him.

What he wrote ran thus,—­

“A bastion is to be attacked at five.  I command.  Colonel Dujardin proposed we should draw lots, and I lost.  The service is honorable, but the result may, I fear, give you some pain.  My dear wife, it is our fate.  I was not to have time to make you know, and perhaps love me.  God bless you.”

In writing these simple words, Raynal’s hard face worked, and his mustache quivered, and once he had to clear his eye with his hand to form the letters.  He, the man of iron.

He who stood there, leaning on his scabbard and watching the writer, saw this, and it stirred all that was great and good in that grand though passionate heart of his.

“Poor Raynal!” thought he, “you were never like that before on going into action.  He is loath to die.  Ay, and it is a coward’s trick to let him die.  I shall have her, but shall I have her esteem?  What will the army say?  What will my conscience say?  Oh!  I feel already it will gnaw my heart to death; the ghost of that brave fellow—­once my dear friend, my rival now, by no fault of his—­will rise between her and me, and reproach me with my bloody inheritance.  The heart never deceives; I feel it now whispering in my ear:  ’Skulking captain, white-livered soldier, that stand behind a parapet while a better man does your work! you assassinate the husband, but the rival conquers you.’  There, he puts his hand to his eyes.  What shall I do?”