Pierre Dubois had dark lines under his eyes; a look of pain and distress marked his face; while a deep-reaching, rasping cough ever and anon shook his frame and interrupted his speech.
"I'd enlist this moment," he said, "if I could be put on duty under cover, out of the way of this miserable wintry wind. But what should I be good for in the trenches, or at the breast-works? You can see for yourself that I shouldn't last a week."
"Aye," returned the sergeant, "I see very plainly that you wouldn't be good for much in an exposed position. I should say consumption was carrying you off about as fast as it could."
"So—it—(a severe fit of coughing)—is."
"Are you fit to enlist at all?"
"Well, no; I do not suppose I am. But I'll be frank with you. I have a spice of the man Adam in me. It is Vengeance. I was at Sedan, as I have told you, and the Germans made me a prisoner. I wasn't fit to march: I could hardly stand; so they pricked me up with their sabre bayonets. Then, when I was thrown into a dirty prison, and begged for a bit of medicine for my cough, they gave me curses and a kick. I swore then, if ever the opportunity should be mine, I would volunteer to stand sentinel over a squad of German prisoners. You've got those fellows in limbo, haven't you?"
"Yes, plenty of them."
"And you've got strong, able, well men standing guard over them?"
"Yes, we have."
"Then, there's my opportunity. Put me there, and I'll do double duty, if I can stand it. At all events, I can perform the duties of a sentinel just as well as any living man."