My dear wife, it is our fate.

I was not to have time to make you know, and perhaps love me.

God bless you." In writing these simple words, Raynal's hard face worked, and his mustache quivered, and once he had to clear his eye with his hand to form the letters.

He, the man of iron.
He who stood there, leaning on his scabbard and watching the writer, saw this, and it stirred all that was great and good in that grand though passionate heart of his.
"Poor Raynal!" thought he, "you were never like that before on going into action.

He is loath to die.