sharp-featured man of about fifty, good-looking, with blue eyes and a
tinge of red in his hair--lay on his bed with his mouth firmly set
and his eyes resting, wistfully almost, on the last wintry sunbeam
that floated in by the geraniums on the window-ledge. He had not
heard the news. For five days now he expected nothing but the end,
and lay and waited for it stoically and with calm good temper.

The Doctor took a seat by the bed-side, and put a question or two.
They were answered by Mrs. Fugler, who moved about the small room
quietly, removing, dusting and replacing the china ornaments on the
chimneypiece. The sick man lay still, with his eyes upon the
sunbeam.

And then very quietly and distinctly the notes of M. Trinquier's
key-bugle rose outside on the frosty air.

The sick man started, and made as if to raise himself on his elbow,
but quickly sank back again--perhaps from weakness, perhaps because
he caught the Doctor's eye and the Doctor's reassuring nod. While he
lay back and listened, a faint flush crept into his face, as though
the blood ran quicker in his weak limbs; and his blue eyes took a new
light altogether.

"That's the tune, hey?" the Doctor asked.

"That's the tune."

"Dismal, ain't it?"

"Ay, it's that." His fingers were beating time on the counterpane.