And how he would talk of her! How many thousand messages he gave me for her! How often he recalled old days among the hills, with each laugh and jest and incident, when we five had been as children! Until I would wonder passionately, the tears running down my face in the darkness, how he could--how he could talk of her in that quiet voice which betrayed no rebellion against fate, no cursing of Providence! How he could plan for her and think of her when she should be alone! Now I understand it.

He was still labouring under the shock of his friends' murder.

He was still partially stunned.

Death seemed natural and familiar to him, as to one who had seen his allies and companions perish without warning or preparation.

Death had come to be normal to him, life the exception; as I have known it seem to a child brought face to face with a corpse for the first time.
One afternoon a strange thing happened.