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180 strike he fell ill of famine-typhus, we only shrugged our shoulders and said:

"Poor little Pig!"

But one of us—he who never laughed—said grimly: "He is our comrade, let us go to him."

He was delirious, and his incoherent ravings were as piteous as the whole of his life. He talked of his dear books, of his amma and brothers; he asked for tarts, cold as ice, tasty tarts; and he swore that he was innocent, and begged for pardon. He called on his native country—his dear France, and damn the weakness of the human heart! he rent our souls with that cry of "Dear France."

We were all in the room when he lay a-dying. He recovered his consciousness before death, and silent he lay, so small, so weak; and silent stood we his comrades. We all to a man heard him say: "When I am dead sing over me the Marseillaise."

"What dost thou say?" we exclaimed, with a shock of mingled joy and rising anger.

He repeated: "When I am dead sing over me the Marseillaise."

And it happened for the first time that his eyes were dry, but we wept, wept one and all: and our tears burned like fire from which fierce wildbeasts do flee.

He died, and we sang over him the Marseillaise. With lusty young voices we sang that great song of freedom; and threateningly the ocean re-echoed