CHAPTER XVI

FOR MY LADY "The worldly hopes men set their hearts upon, Turn ashes--or they prosper; Anon, like snow upon the desert's dusty face, Lighting a little hour or two--are gone. . . ." Becque's body having been borne away at dawn for burial, I soon began to wonder if the events of the previous day and night had really occurred, or whether they were the nightmare imaginings of a delirious fever-victim. My wounds were real enough, however, and though slight, were painful in the extreme, throbbing almos…