an active interest in his fate. He thought of himself as somebody else,
and felt a vague impersonal pity. He criticised the random firing, and
suspected the hit was merely a fluke. When his back was dry he rolled
lazily over and lay gazing up at the cloudless sky. For greater comfort
he placed his hands beneath his head. The sky faded, and a moment's
unconsciousness intervened.

"This won't do," he cried, shaking himself. "If I fall asleep I shall
roll off."

He sat up again, his joints stiff with his immersion, and watched the
distant ironclads. He saw with languid interest a ball strike the
water, take a new flight, and plunge into the sea far to the right. He
thought that the vagaries of cannon-balls at sea would make an
interesting study.

"Are you injured?" cried a clear voice behind him.

"_Mon Dieu!_" shouted the young man in a genuine fright, as he
sprang to his feet.

"Oh, I beg pardon," as if a rescuer need apologize, "I thought you were
M. De Plonville."

"I _am_ De Plonville."

"Your hair is grey," she said in an awed whisper; then added, "and no
wonder."

"Mademoiselle," replied the stricken young man, placing his hand on his