“You will excuse me if I go back rather far.  It was in ’74, when I had been ill with Cuban fever.  To keep me alive they had put me on board a ship at Santiago, and at the end of the voyage I found myself in London.  I had very little money; I knew nobody.  I tell you, sir, there are times when it’s hard for a fighting man to get anything to do.  People would say to me:  ‘Afraid we’ve nothing for a man like you in our business.’  I tried people of all sorts; but it was true—­I had been fighting here and there since ’60, I wasn’t fit for anything—­” He shook his head.  “In the South, before the war, they had a saying, I remember, about a dog and a soldier having the same value.  But all this has nothing to do with what I have to tell you.”  He sighed again and went on, moistening his lips:  “I was walking along the Strand one day, very disheartened, when I heard my name called.  It’s a queer thing, that, in a strange street.  By the way,” he put in with dry ceremony, “you don’t know my name, I think:  it is Brune—­Roger Brune.  At first I did not recognise the person who called me.  He had just got off an omnibus—­a square-shouldered man with heavy moustaches, and round spectacles.  But when he shook my hand I knew him at once.  He was a man called Dalton, who was taken prisoner at Gettysburg; one of you Englishmen who came to fight with us—­a major in the regiment where I was captain.  We were comrades during two campaigns.  If I had been his brother he couldn’t have seemed more pleased to see me.  He took me into a bar for the sake of old times.  The drink went to my head, and by the time we reached Trafalgar Square I was quite unable to walk.  He made me sit down on a bench.  I was in fact—­drunk.  It’s disgraceful to be drunk, but there was some excuse.  Now I tell you, sir” (all through his story he was always making use of that expression, it seemed to infuse fresh spirit into him, to help his memory in obscure places, to give him the mastery of his emotions; it was like the piece of paper a nervous man holds in his hand to help him through a speech), “there never was a man with a finer soul than my friend Dalton.  He was not clever, though he had read much; and sometimes perhaps he was too fond of talking.  But he was a gentleman; he listened to me as if I had been a child; he was not ashamed of me—­and it takes a gentleman not to be ashamed of a drunken man in the streets of London; God knows what things I said to him while we were sitting there!  He took me to his home and put me to bed himself; for I was down again with fever.”  He stopped, turned slightly from me, and put his hand up to his brow.  “Well, then it was, sir, that I first saw her.  I am not a poet and I cannot tell you what she seemed to me.  I was delirious, but I always knew when she was there.  I had dreams of sunshine and cornfields, of dancing waves at sea, young trees—­never the same dreams, never anything for long together; and when I had my senses I was afraid to say so for