swallow, untamable, gay, brave to foolishness, moving in dashes not to
be followed--such was my Hirondelle. And yet this swift bird was in the
end shot down."

At this point in the colonel's speech. I happened to look at Rafael,
back in the shadows of the half-lighted big room. His eyes glittered out
of the dimness like disks of fire, his face was strained, and his figure
bent forward. "He must have known this chap, the Swallow," I thought to
myself. "Just possibly a son or brother or nephew of his." The colonel
was going on, telling in fluent, beautiful French the story of how
Hirondelle, wrapped in a sheet, had rescued him. The men drank it in.
"When those guides are old, old fellows, they'll talk about this night
and the colonel's speech to their great-grandchildren," I considered,
and again the colonel went on.

"Have I m'sieur's permission to _raconter_ a short story of the most
amusing which was the last escapade of my Hirondelle before he was
killed?"

M'sieur gave permission eagerly, and the low murmur of the voices of the
hypnotized guides, standing in a group before the colonel, added to its
force and set him smiling.

"It was like this," he stated. "My Hirondelle was out in No Man's Land
of a night, strictly charged to behave in a manner _comme il faut_, for
he was of a rashness, and we did not wish to lose him. He was valuable
to us, and beyond that the regiment had an affection for him. For such
reasons his captain tried--but, yes--to keep him within bounds. As I
say, on this night he had received particular orders to be _sage_. So
that the first thing the fellow does is to lose his comrades, for which