human
the former champion of the Legion, and, taking his place in the match with the Marseillais, had kept the championship for the First _Regiment Etrangére_. Since the day more than a week ago when the barrack-yard of the Legion had been the scene of the great fight--officers looking on in the front ranks of the invited crowd, and soldiers hanging out of dormitory windows--every one in Sidi-bel-Abbés had learned to know the hero by sight; and a blackened eye, a bruised cheek-bone, and a swelled lip (the unbecoming badges of his triumph) made recognition easy. But the Legion was proud of St. George. Not a man, least of all Four Eyes, grudged him his success, such
gpt
had done for him, and was aware that eyes turned his way; but, far from being proud, he was half-ashamed of his conspicuousness, fearing that Colonel DeLisle might disapprove. Also, he knew that the small, brief blaze of his notoriety would die out like the flame of a candle. A week or two more and the
human
What's the matter, Garcia? Are you ill?
gpt
What's wrong? Garcia! What's wrong with you?
human
I beg your pardon, he stammered, dazed.
gpt
I didn't realize you were--speaking--to me.
human
Juan Garcia, the name appearing with the