“Your chain is here, madame, though broken, I regret to see,” he continued, as he took the little box from his coat and handed it to her.  She took it, and thanked him, without, for the moment, opening the enamel case as she motioned him to a seat at a little distance from her own.

“You have been in terrible scenes since I saw you last,” she continued.  “The story of Zaraila reached us.  Surely they cannot refuse you the reward of your service now?”

“It will make little difference, madame, whether they do or not.”

“Little difference!  How is that?”

“To my own fate, I meant.  Whether I be captain or a corporal cannot alter——­”

He paused; he dreaded lest the word should escape him which should reveal to her that which she would regard as such intolerable offense, such insolent indignity, when felt for her by a soldier in the grade he held.

“No?  Yet such recognition is usually the ambition of every military life.”

A very weary smile passed over his face.

“I have no ambition, madame.  Or, if I have, it is not a pair of epaulettes that will content it.”

She understood him; she comprehended the bitter mockery that the tawdry, meretricious rewards of regimental decoration seemed to the man who had waited to die at Zaraila as patiently and as grandly as the Old Guard at Waterloo.

“I understand!  The rewards are pitifully disproportionate to the services in the army.  Yet how magnificently you and your men, as I have been told, held your ground all through that fearful day!”

“We did our duty—­nothing more.”

“Well! is not that the rarest thing among men?”

“Not among soldiers, madame.”

“Then you think that every trooper in a regiment is actuated by the finest and most impersonal sentiment that can actuate human beings!”

“I will not say that.  Poor wretches!  They are degraded enough, too often.  But I believe that more or less in every good soldier, even when he is utterly unconscious of it, is an impersonal love for the honor of his Flag, an uncalculating instinct to do his best for the reputation of his corps.  We are called human machines; we are so, since we move by no will of our own; but the lowest among us will at times be propelled by one single impulse—­a desire to die greatly.  It is all that is left to most of us to do.”

She looked at him with that old look which he had seen once or twice before in her, of pity, respect, sympathy, and wonder, all in one.  He spoke to her as he had never spoken to any living being.  The grave, quiet, listless impassiveness that still was habitual with him—­relic of the old habits of his former life—­was very rarely broken, for his real nature or his real thoughts to be seen beneath it.  But she, so far removed from him by position and by circumstance, and distant with him as a great lady could not but be with a soldier of whose antecedents and whose character she knew nothing, gave him sympathy, a sympathy that was sweet and rather felt than uttered; and it was like balm to a wound, like sweet melodies on a weary ear, to the man who had carried his secret so silently and so long, without one to know his burden or to soothe his pain.