"Ah, but monsieur l'officier"—his hands were stretched forth in an agony of appeal—"Petite Simunde, she wait for me. I promise to come—I no come—it is terrible!"
The judge in khaki laughed.
"I am fed up with the stories of you French-Canadians and your village sweethearts—and, confound it, stop waving your hands about!"
"Standt'attenshun!" bellowed the sergeant-major.
"Consider yourself lucky to get off so lightly, my man.—That will do, sergeant-major."
"Escor' a'prisoner—ri tuh—qui' mawch.—Lef' ri', lef' ri', lef' ri—Pawty, ha't.—Report to horse line N.C.O. right away.—Escor', dees-mi!"
Rather late for mess, by reason of holding orderly room at an unusual hour, the company commander sat down to dinner with a glow of virtue in his bosom. He had been a lawyer-politician in a small Ontario town, and it pleased him to find that he had not lost the art of Buzfuzian browbeating.
And through it all the Fates had woven a thread of tragedy about the life of Jacque Noir, using in their scheme of things a non-psychological staff-officer, a non-military and non-psychological company commander, and a sergeant whose name was Smith.
"There is humor in all things," said Jack Point. Gilbert would have been equally correct if he had substituted the word "tragedy."
Before sundown of the next day the prisoner was reported absent, and when the battalion marched away for the line Jacque Des Rosiers was not with it.