gladness within, where he and Julie had sat face to face, only a narrow
table between, and Antoine and Suzanne had served.

He stood awhile in the open door, the snow whirling now and then against
him, and the faint mutter of great guns coming at almost regular
intervals to his ears. He was trying to decide what to do, free from any
influence, however noble, which might unconsciously turn him from his
duty. His was in the nature of a roving commission, and yet he must not
rove too far. He decided that if Lannes did not come in the morning he
would insist upon Julie going with him to the hospital camp. It would be
hard for him to go against her wishes, but he was bound to do it, and
easy in little things, young John Scott had a will in greater affairs
that could not be overborne.

But his heart remained singularly light. This was a good hotel, the
Hôtel de l'Europe. He had not found a finer or better in Europe. Others
might be larger and more magnificent, but not one of them had offered
him such light and hospitality at a time when they were needed most. He
went back to the bureau, where the register still lay open. He had a
vague impression that it was not lying just as they had left it, that it
was turned much more to one side, and he glanced at the names, which a
quaint fancy had made them write on the open page. His own name had been
inscribed there last, and he started when he saw another written beneath
it in a bold flowing hand. But the light was so dim that he could not at
first make it out, and despite all his courage and power of will an
uncanny feeling seized him. A chill ran along his spine, and his hair
lifted a little.

With a cry of anger at himself, he seized the candle and held it over
the page. Then he read the new name: