head from side to side without answering. Finally I sat down on the
bench beside him and gently stroking his well arm, pleaded that he would
tell us his trouble so that we might help him. He drew his head up with
a jerk, and turning on me with an almost furious look in his big black
eyes, he snapped, "Are you married?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what it is. My God, my wife and babies, shut up in
Valenciennes. It isn't this that's killing me," he continued, slapping
his bandaged arm. "It's only a flesh wound in the shoulder. But it's
the other--the other thoughts. I've seen them at their work, the pack
of cursed cowards! but if they ever touch my wife! Perhaps they have,
the dirty blackguards, and I'm not there to defend her. Curse them all!"

And he beat his fist on his knees in rage. Then anger, and agony having
reached paroxysm, his lips trembled, his mouth twitched, and brusquely
throwing his arm around my neck, he buried his head on my shoulder and
burst into tears.

The first instant of surprise over, it would have been stupid to be
offended. The circumstances were such that it was impossible not to be
moved.

I had never seen a man weep before; I never want to again. For a full
quarter-hour he sobbed like a child--this great sturdy fellow of
thirty-five, and through the mist in my eyes I could see that my
companion had turned her back on us and was fumbling for her
handkerchief in her pocket.