"Perhaps when they begin to advance, they will leave a break in the line somewhere," his companion suggested. "Or perhaps we can slip across in the darkness. Let us wait and see."
So they sat down behind the screen of a clump of bushes, and munched their apples, while they watched the scene below. Stewart even ventured to light his pipe again.
A flotilla of boats of every shape and size, commandeered, no doubt, all up and down the river, plied busily back and forth, augmenting the troops on the other side as rapidly as possible; and again Stewart marveled at the absolute order and system preserved in this operation, which might so easily have become confused. There was no crowding, no overloading, no hurrying, but everywhere a calm and efficient celerity. A certain number of men entered each of the boats,—leading their horses by the bridle, if they were cavalry,—and the boats pushed off. Reluctant horses were touched with a whip, but most of them stepped down into the water quietly and without hesitation, showing that they had been drilled no less than their masters, and swam strongly along beside the boat. On the other shore, the disembarkation was conducted in the same unhurried fashion, and the boat swung back into the stream again for another load.
But a great army cannot be conveyed across a river in small boats, and it was not until mid-afternoon, when the repairs on the bridge were finished, that the real forward movement began. From that moment it swept forward like a flood—first the remainder of the cavalry, then the long batteries of quick-firers, then regiment after regiment of infantry, each regiment accompanied by its transport. Looking down at the tangle of wagons and guns and motors, Stewart saw that it was not really a tangle, but an ordered arrangement, which unrolled itself smoothly and without friction.
The advance was slow, but it was unceasing, and by nightfall at least fifteen thousand men had crossed the river. Still the host encamped along it seemed as great as ever. As one detachment crossed, another came up from somewhere in the rear to take its place. Stewart's brain reeled as he gazed down at them and tried to estimate their number; and this was only one small corner of the Kaiser's army. For leagues and leagues to north and south it was pressing forward; no doubt along the whole frontier similar hosts were massed for the invasion. It was gigantic, incredible—that word was in his thoughts more frequently than any other. He could not believe his own eyes; his brain refused to credit the evidence of his senses.
Each unit of this great array, each company, each squad, seemed to live its own life and to be sufficient unto itself. Stewart could see the company cooks preparing the evening meal; the heavy, wheeled camp-stoves were fired up, great kettles of soup were set bubbling, broad loaves of dark bread were cut into thick slices; and finally, at a bugle call, the men fell into line, white-enameled cups in hand, and received their rations. It seemed to Stewart that he could smell the appetizing odor of that thick soup—an odor of onions and potatoes and turnips.
"Doesn't it make you ravenous?" he asked. "Wouldn't you like to have some real solid food to set your teeth into? Raw eggs and apples—ugh!"
"Yes, it does," said the girl, who had been contemplating the scene with dreamy eyes, scarcely speaking all the afternoon. "The French still wear the uniform of 1870," she added, half to herself; "a long bulky blue coat and red trousers."
"Visible a mile away—while these fellows melt into the ground at a hundred yards! If Germany wins, it will be through forethought!"
"But she cannot win!" protested the girl, fiercely. "She must not win!"
"Well, all I can say is that France has a big job ahead!"
"France will not stand alone! Already she has Russia as an ally; Belgium is doing what it can; Servia has a well-tried army. Nor are those all! England will soon find that she cannot afford to stand aside, and if there is need, other nations will come in—Portugal, Rumania, even Italy!"
Stewart shook his head, skeptically.
"I don't know," he said, slowly. "I know nothing about world-politics, but I don't believe any nation will come in that doesn't have to!"
"That is it—all of them will find that they have to, for Prussian triumph means slavery for all Europe—for the Germans most of all. It is for them as much as for herself that France is fighting—for human rights everywhere—for the poor people who till the fields, and toil in the factories, and sweat in the mines! And civilization must fight with her against this barbarian state ruled by the upturned mustache and mailed fist, believing that might makes right and that she can do no wrong! That is why you and I are fighting on France's side!"
"If nobody fights any harder than I——"
She stopped him with a hand upon his arm.
"Ah, but you are fighting well! One can fight in other ways than with a rifle—one can fight with one's brains."
"It is your brains, not mine, which have done the fighting in this campaign," Stewart pointed out.
"Where should I have been but for you? Dead, most probably, my message lost, my life-work shattered!"
He placed his hand quietly over hers and held it fast.
"Let us be clear, then," he said. "It is not for freedom, or for any abstract ideal I am fighting. It is for you—for your friendship, for your——"
"No, it is for France," she broke in. "I am not worth fighting for—I am but one girl among many millions. And if we win—if we get through——"
She paused, gazing out through the gathering darkness with starry eyes.
"Yes—if we get through," he prompted.
"It will mean more to France than many regiments!" and she struck the pocket which contained the letters. "Ah, we must get through—we must not fail!"
She rose suddenly and stretched her arms high above her head.
"Dear God, you will not let us fail!" she cried. Then she turned and held out a hand to him. "Come," she said, quietly; "if we are to get across, it must be before the moon rises."
The mist of early evening had settled over the river and wiped away every vestige of the army, save the flaring lights of the camp-kitchens and the white lamps of the motors; but the creaking of wheels, the pounding of engines, and the regular tramp of countless feet told that the advance had not slackened for an instant.
On the uplands there was still a little light, and Stewart and his companion picked their way cautiously down through a belt of woodland, across a rough field, and over a wall, beyond which they found an uneven path, made evidently by a vanished herd as it went back and forth to its pasture. They advanced slowly and silently, every sense on the alert, but seemingly no pickets had been posted on this side, from which there was no reason to fear an attack, and they were soon down amid the mist, at the edge of the encampment.
Here, however, there were sentries—a close line of them; the fugitives could see them dimly outlined against the fires, and could hear their occasional interchange of challenges.
"It is impossible to get through here," whispered the girl. "Let us go on until we are below the bridge. Perhaps we shall find a gap there."
So, hand in hand lest they become separated in the darkness, they worked their way cautiously downstream, just out of sight of the line of sentries.
"Wait!" whispered Stewart, suddenly. "What is that ahead?"
Something tall and black and vaguely menacing loomed above them into the night.
"The church tower!" breathed the girl, after a moment. "See—there are ruins all about it—it is the village they burned."
They hesitated. Should they enter it, or try to go around? There was something sinister and threatening about these roofless, blackened walls which had once been homes; but to go around meant climbing cliffs, meant breathless scrambling—above all, meant loss of time.
"We must risk it," said the girl, at last. "We can come back if the place is guarded."
Their hands instinctively tightened their clasp as they stole forward into the shadow of the houses, along what had once been a street, but was now littered and blocked with fallen walls and débris of every kind, some of it still smouldering. Everywhere there was the stench of half-burned wood, and another stench, more penetrating, more nauseating.
Stewart was staring uneasily about him, telling himself that that stench could not possibly be what it seemed, when his companion's hand squeezed his and dragged him quickly aside against a wall.
"Down, down!" she breathed, and they cowered together behind a mass of fallen masonry.
Then Stewart peered out, cautiously. Yes, there was someone coming. Far down the street ahead of them a tiny light flashed, disappeared, flashed again, and disappeared.
Crowding close together, they buried themselves deeper in the ruins and waited.
At last they could hear steps—slow, cautious steps, full of fear—and the light appeared again, dancing from side to side. It seemed to be a small lantern, carefully shaded, so that only a narrow beam of light escaped; and that beam was sent dancing from side to side along the street, in dark corners, under fallen doorways.
Suddenly it stopped, and Stewart's heart leaped sickeningly as he saw that the beam rested on a face—a white face, staring up with sightless eyes.
The light approached, hung above it—a living hand caught up the dead one, on which there was the gleam of gold, a knife flashed——
And then, from the darkness almost beside them, four darts of flame stabbed toward the kneeling figure, and the ruins rocked with a great explosion.
When Stewart opened his eyes again, he saw a squad of soldiers, each armed with an electric torch, standing about the body of the robber of the dead, while their sergeant emptied his pockets. There were rings—one still encircling a severed finger—money, a watch, trinkets of every sort, some of them quite worthless.
The man was in uniform, and the sergeant, ripping open coat and shirt, drew out the little identifying tag of metal which hung about his neck, broke it from its string, and thrust it into his pocket. Then he gathered the booty into his handkerchief, tied the ends together with a satisfied grunt, and gave a gruff command. The lights vanished and the squad stumbled ahead into the darkness.
There was a moment's silence. Stewart's nerves were quivering so that he could scarcely control them—he could feel his mouth twitching, and put his hand up to stop it.
"We can't go on," he muttered. "We must go back. This is too horrible—it is unbearable!"
Together they stole tremblingly out of the ruin, along the littered street, past the church-tower, across the road, over the wall, back into the clean fields. There they flung themselves down gaspingly, side by side.
How sweet the smell of the warm earth, after the stench of the looted town! How calm and lovely the stars.
Stewart, staring up at them, felt a great serenity descend upon him. After all, what did it matter to the universe—this trivial disturbance upon this tiny planet? Men might kill each other, nations disappear; but the stars would swing on in their courses, the constellations go their predestined ways. Of what significance was man in the great scheme of things? How absurd the pomp of kings and kaisers, how grotesque their assumption of greatness!
A stifled sob startled him. He groped quickly for his comrade, and found her lying prone, her face buried in her arms. He drew her close and held her as he might have held a child. After all, she was scarcely more than that—a child, delicate and sensitive. As a child might, she pillowed her head upon his breast and lay there sobbing softly.
But the sobs ceased presently; he could feel how she struggled for self-control; and at last she turned in his arms and lay staring up at the heavens.
"That's right," he said. "Look up at the stars! That helps!" and it seemed to him, in spite of the tramp of feet and the rattle of wheels and curses of savage drivers, that they were alone together in the midst of things, and that nothing else mattered.
"How sublime they are!" she whispered. "How they calm and strengthen one! They seem to understand!" She turned her face and looked at him. "You too have understood!" she said, very softly; then gently disengaged his arms and sat erect.
"Do you know," said Stewart, slowly, "what we saw back there has revived my faith in human nature—and it needed reviving! Those men must have seen that that scoundrel was a soldier like themselves, yet they didn't hesitate to shoot. Justice still lives, then; a sense of decency can survive, even in an army. I had begun to doubt it, and I am glad to know that I was wrong."
"The tenderest, noblest gentleman I ever knew," she answered, softly, "was a soldier."
"Yes," Stewart agreed; "I have known one or two like that."
War was not wholly bad, then. Its fierce flame blasted, blackened, tortured—but it also refined. It had its brutal lusts—but it had also its high heroisms!
The girl at his side stirred suddenly.
"We must be going," she said.
"You're sure you are all right again?"
"Yes," and she rose quickly. "We must go back the way we came."
They set out again along the edge of the army, stumbling across rough fields, crouching behind hedges, turning aside to avoid a lighted house where some officers were making merry. For perhaps a mile they pressed on, with a line of sentries always at their right, outlined against the gleam of scattered lights. Then, quite suddenly, there were no more lights, and they knew that they had reached the limit of the encampment.
Had they also reached the limit of the line of sentries? There was no way to make sure; but they crept forward to the wall along the highway and peered cautiously over. The road seemed empty. They crossed it as swiftly and silently as shadows, and in a moment were safe behind the wall on the other side.
Beyond it lay the yard of an iron foundry, with great piles of castings scattered about and a tall building looming at their left. In front of it they caught the gleam of a sentry's rifle, so they bore away to the right until they reached the line of the railway running close along the river bank. There were sentries here, too, but they were stationed far apart and were apparently half-asleep, and the fugitives had no difficulty in slipping between them. A moment later, they had scrambled down a steep bank and stood at the edge of the river.
"And now," whispered Stewart, "to get over."
He looked out across the water, flowing strong and deep, mysterious and impressive in the darkness, powerful, unhurried, alert—as if grimly conscious of its task, and rejoicing in it; for this stream which was holding the Germans back had its origin away southward in the heart of France. He could not see the other bank, but he knew that it was at least two hundred yards away.
"If we could find a boat!" he added. "We saw plenty of them this afternoon."
"We dare not use a boat," the girl objected. "We should be seen and fired upon."
"Do you mean to swim?" Stewart demanded.
"Be more careful!" she cautioned. "Someone may hear us," and she drew him down into the shadow of the bank. "Unfortunately, I cannot swim, but no doubt you can."
"I'm not what would be called an expert, but I think I could swim across this river. However, I absolutely refuse to try to take you over. It would be too great a risk."
"If we had a plank or log, I could hold to it while you pushed it along. If you grew tired, you could rest and drift for a time."
Stewart considered the plan. It seemed feasible. A drifting plank would attract no attention from the shore—the river was full of débris from the operations around Liège—and, whether they got across or not, there would be no danger of either of them drowning. And they ought to get over, for it would be no great task to work a plank across the stream.
"Yes, I think I could do that," he said at last. "Let us see if we can find a plank."
There was nothing of the sort along the shore, though they searched it for some distance; but opposite the foundry they came upon a pile of the square wooden sand-boxes in which castings are made. Stewart, when he saw them, chuckled with satisfaction.
"Just the thing!" he said. "Providence is certainly on our side to-night!"
"I hope so!" breathed the girl, and between them they carried one of the boxes down to the edge of the water.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, Stewart sat down and began to take off his shoes.
"We shall have to get rid of our clothing," he said, in the most matter-of-fact tone he could muster. "There is nothing heavier than clothes when they get water-soaked. Besides, we've got to keep them dry if we can. If we don't, we shall nearly freeze to death after we leave the water—and they'll betray us a mile off!"
The girl stood for a moment staring out across the river. Then she sat down with her back to him.
"You are quite right," she agreed, quietly, and bent above her shoes.
"We'll turn the box upside down and put our clothes upon it," went on Stewart, cheerfully. "They will keep dry there. The water isn't very cold, probably, but we shall be mighty glad to have some dry things to get into once we are out of it."
She did not reply, and Stewart went rapidly on with his undressing. When that was finished, he rolled his trousers, shoes and underclothing into a compact bundle inside his coat, and tied the sleeves together.
"Now I'm going to launch the raft," he said. "Roll your clothes up inside your coat, so that nothing white will show, and wade out to me as soon as you are ready."
"Very well," she answered, in a low tone.
With his bundle under one arm, Stewart turned the box over and dragged it into the water. He had been shivering in the night air, but the water was agreeably warm. Placing his bundle upon the top of the box, he pushed it before him out into the stream, and was soon breast-deep. Then, holding the box against the current, he waited.
Minute after minute passed, but she did not come. He could not see the shore, but he strained his eyes toward it, wondering if he should go back, if anything had happened. So quiet and unquestioning had been her acceptance of his plan that he did not suspect the struggle waging there on the bank between girlish modesty and grim necessity.
But, at last, from the mist along the shore, a white figure emerged, dim and ghostlike in the darkness, and he heard a gentle splashing as she came toward him through the water. He raised his arm, to make certain that she saw him, then turned his head away.
Near and nearer came the splashing; then the box rocked gently as she placed her clothing on it.
"All right?" he asked, softly.
"Yes," she answered.
He turned to find her looking up at him from the level of the stream, which came just beneath her chin. The light of the stars reflected on the water crowned her with a misty halo, and again he read in her face that sweet and tremulous appeal for respect and understanding which had so moved him once before. It moved him far more deeply now; but he managed to bite back the words which leaped to his lips and to speak almost casually—as though situations such as this were the most ordinary in the world.
"Have you got a firm grip of the handle?"
"Yes."
He assured himself that both bundles of clothing were secure.
"All ready, then," he said. "Just hold on and let your body float out in the water. Don't hold your head too high, and if you feel your hands slipping call me at once. I don't want to lose you, little comrade!"
"I will remember," she promised, smiling gratefully up at him.
"Then here we go," and he pushed the box slowly out into the stream.
In a moment the water was at his chin.
"All right?" he asked again.
"Yes."
He took another step forward, the current caught him and lifted him off his feet, and he began to swim easily and slowly. He was not sure of his strength, it was a long time since he had done any serious swimming, and he knew that he must husband himself. Then, too, the current was stronger than it had seemed from the shore, and he found that he could make head against it but slowly, for the box was of an awkward shape and the girl's body trailing behind it so much dead weight.
"Slow but sure," he said, reassuringly, resting a moment. "You're quite all right?"
"Yes. You must not worry about me."
He glanced back at the shore, where the lights of the camp shone dimly through the mist.
"We're going to drift right past the camp," he said; "but they can't see us, and it will make our landing safer if we come out below the troops. It would be rather embarrassing, wouldn't it, if we found a patrol waiting for us on the bank? Now for another swim!"
He pushed ahead until he found himself beginning to tire, then stopped and looked around.
"There's the bridge!" he said, suddenly.
And, sure enough, just ahead, they could see its dim shape spanning the stream. A cold fear gripped Stewart's heart. Suppose they should be swept against one of the abutments!
"Take tight hold with both hands," he commanded. "Don't let go, whatever happens!"
He swung himself round to the front of the box and tried to pierce the gloom ahead. The center of the stream would be clear, he told himself, and they must be nearly in the center. Then he heard the confused tread of many feet, the current seemed to quicken, and he glanced up to see that they were almost beneath the bridge. Yes, the stream ahead was clear; but what were those lights down along the water?
And then he saw that a boat was moored there, and that a squad of men were strengthening the supports with which the engineers had hastily repaired the shattered abutment.
With frenzied energy, he pulled the box around so that his companion's head was hidden behind it; then, with only his nose out, he floated silently on. They would not see him, he told himself; they were too busily at work. Even if they did, they could make nothing of this rough shape drifting down the river.
Nevertheless, as they swept within the circle of light cast by the flaring torches, Stewart, taking a deep breath, let himself sink below the surface; and not until the blood was singing in his ears did he come up again.
They had passed! They were safe! He drew a deep breath. Then he peered around the box.
"Are you there? Are you all right?"
"Yes," came the soft answer. "Never tell me again that you are not a fighter!"
"Compliments are barred until we are safe in Belgium!" he reminded her gayly. "But it's clear sailing now!"
He struck out again, pushing diagonally forward toward the bank which he could not see, but which could not be far away. This was not going to prove such a desperate adventure, after all. The worst was over, for, once on land, far below the German troops, they had only to push forward to find themselves among friends.
Then his heart stood still as a shrill scream rent the night—a woman's scream of deadly horror—and he jerked his head around to find that his comrade was no longer there.
Never will Stewart forget the stark horror of that instant; never afterward did he think of it without a shudder. It was one of those instants—fortunately few—which stamp themselves indelibly upon the brain, which penetrate the spirit, which leave a mark not to be effaced.
It was the flash of her white arm, as she sank for the second time, that saved her. Instinctively Stewart clutched at it, seized it, regained the box at a vigorous stroke, threw one arm across a handle, and raised her head above the water.
Her face was white as death, her eyes were closed, she hung a dead weight upon his arm—and yet, Stewart told himself, she could not have drowned in so short a time. She had been under water only a few seconds. Perhaps she had been wounded—but he had heard no shot. His teeth chattered as he looked at her, she lay so still, so deathlike.
And then he remembered that shrill scream of utter horror. Why had she screamed? What was it had wrung from her that terrible cry? Had some awful thing touched her, seized her, tried to drag her down?
Shivering with fear, Stewart looked out across the water. Was there something lurking in those depths—some horror—some unthinkable monster——
He shook himself impatiently; he must not give way to his nerves. Holding her face back, he splashed some water into it, gently at first, then more violently. She was not dead—she had only fainted. A touch on her temple assured him that her heart was beating.
He must have been unconsciously paddling against the current, for something touched him gently on the shoulder—a piece of driftwood, perhaps; and then he was suddenly conscious that it was not driftwood—that it was soft, hairy——
He spun around, to find himself staring down into a pair of unseeing eyes, set in a face so puffed and leprous as to be scarcely human.
How he repressed the yell of terror that rose in his throat he never knew; but hedidrepress it somehow, and creeping with horror, pushed the box quickly to one side. But the bloated body, caught in the swirl of his wake, turned and followed, with an appearance of malignant purpose which sent a chill up Stewart's spine. Kicking frenziedly, he held the box back against the current, and for an instant fancied that his hideous pursuer was holding back also. But, after what seemed like a moment's hesitation, it drifted on down the stream and vanished in the darkness.
For a moment longer, Stewart stared after it, half-expecting it to reappear and bear down upon him. Then, with an anguished breath of relief, he stopped swimming and looked down at the face upon his arm. So that was the horror which had beset her. She had felt it nuzzling against her, had turned as he had done! No wonder she had screamed!
He felt her bosom rise and fall with a quick gasp; then her eyes opened and gazed up at him. For an instant they gazed vacantly and wildly, then a flood of crimson swept from chin to brow, and she struggled to free herself from his encircling arm.
"Easy now!" Stewart protested. "Are you sure you're all right? Are you sure you're strong enough to hold on?"
"Yes, yes!" she panted. "Let me go!"
He guided her fingers to the handles, assured himself that she grasped them firmly, then released her and swam to his old position on the other side of the box. For a moment they floated on in silence.
"How foolish of me!" she said, at last, in a choking voice. "I suppose you saved my life!"
"Oh, I just grabbed you by the arm and held on to you till you came to."
"Did I scream?"
"I should rather think so! Scared me nearly to death!"
"I could not help it! I was frightened. It was—it was——"
"I know," said Stewart, quickly. "I saw it. Don't think about it—it has gone on downstream."
"It—it seemed to be following me!" she gasped.
"Yes—I had the same feeling; but it's away ahead of us now. Now, if you're all right, we'll work in toward the bank—it can't be far off. Hullo! What's that?"
A shadowy shape emerged from the darkness along the eastern shore, and they caught the rattle of oars in row-locks.
"They heard you scream," whispered Stewart. "They've sent out a patrol to investigate," and with all his strength he pushed on toward the farther bank.
Suddenly a shaft of light shot from the bow of the boat out across the water, sweeping up and down, dwelling upon this piece of driftwood and upon that. With a gasp of apprehension, Stewart swung the box around so that it screened them from the searchlight, and kept on swimming with all his strength.
"If they spot those bundles," he panted, "they'll be down upon us like a load of brick! Ah!"
The light was upon them. Above their heads the bundles of clothing stood out as if silhouetted against the midday sky. Stewart cursed his folly in placing them there; surely wet clothes were preferable to capture! He should not have taken the risk—he should have put the clothing inside the box and let it take its chance. But it was too late now. In another moment——
The light swept on.
From sheer reaction, Stewart's body dropped limply for an instant through the water, and then rebounded as from an electric shock.
"I can touch bottom!" he said, hoarsely. "We'll get there yet. Hold fast!"
Setting his teeth, digging his toes into the mud, he dragged the box toward the shore with all his strength. In a moment, the water was only to his shoulders—to his chest—he could see that his comrade was wading, too.
He stopped, peering anxiously ahead. There was no light anywhere along the shore, and no sound broke the stillness.
"It seems all right," he whispered. "I will go ahead and make sure. If it is safe, you will hear me whistle. Keep behind the box, for fear that searchlight will sweep this way again, and when I whistle, come straight out. You understand?"
"Yes."
"Good-by, then, for a moment, little comrade!"
"Good-by."
With one look deep into her eyes, he snatched up the bundle containing his clothing, and crouching as low in the water as he could, set off cautiously toward the shore. There was a narrow strip of gravel just ahead, and behind that a belt of darkness which, he told himself, was a wood. He could see no sign of any sentry.
As he turned at the water's edge, he noticed a growing band of light over the hills to the east, and knew that the moon was rising. There was no time to lose! He whistled softly and began hastily to dress.
Low as the whistle was, it reached the boat—or perhaps it was mere chance that brought the searchlight sweeping round just as the girl rose in the water and started toward the shore. The light swept past her, swept back again, and stopped full upon the flying figure, as slim and graceful as Diana's.
There was a hoarse shout from the boat, and the splash of straining oars; and then Stewart was dashing forward into the water, was by her side, had caught her hand and was dragging her toward the bank.
"Go on! Go on!" he cried, and paused to pick up his shoes, for the sharp gravel warned him, that, with unprotected feet, flight would be impossible. His coat lay beside them and he grabbed that too. Then he was up again and after her, across the cruel stones of the shore, toward the darkness of the wood and safety—one yard—two yards——
And always the searchlight beat upon them mercilessly.
There came a roar of rifles from the river, a flash of flame, the whistle of bullets about his ears.
And then they were in the wood and he had her by the hand.
"Not hurt?" he gasped.
"No, no!"
"Thank heaven! We are safe for a moment. Get on some clothes—especially your shoes. We can't run barefooted!"
He was fumbling with his own shoes as he spoke—managed to thrust his bruised feet into them—stuffed his socks into the pocket of his coat and slipped into it.
"Ready?" he asked.
"In a moment!"
And then he felt her hand in his.
"Which way?"
He glanced back through the trees. The boat was at the bank; its occupants were leaping out, rifles in hand; the searchlight swept up and down.
"This way, I think!" and he guided her diagonally to the right. "Go carefully! The less noise we make the better. But as long as those fellows keep on shooting, they can't hear us."
Away they went, stumbling, scrambling, bending low to escape the overhanging branches, saving each other from some ugly falls—up a long incline covered by an open wood, across a little glade, over a wall, through another strip of woodland, into a road, over another wall—and then Stewart gave a gasp of relief, for they were in a field of grain.
"We shall be safe here," he said, as they plunged into it. "I will watch, while you finish dressing," and he faced back toward the way they had come.
The full moon was sailing high above the eastern hills, and he could see distinctly the wall they had just crossed, with the white road behind it, and beyond that the dense shadow of the wood. It was on the strip of road he kept his eyes, but no living creature crossed it and at last he felt a touch upon his arm.
"My turn now!" the girl whispered.
Stewart sat down upon the ground, wiped the mud from his feet, shook the gravel from his shoes, drew on his socks and laced his shoes properly. As he started to get up, he felt a sudden sharp twinge in his shoulder.
"What is it?" asked the girl, quickly, for an exclamation of pain had burst from him before he could choke it back.
"Nothing at all!" he said, and rose, gingerly. "I touched a raw place, where a briar scratched me. I seem to be composed largely of raw places—especially as to my feet. How are yours?"
"One of them hurts a little—not enough to mention."
"You're sure you can walk?"
"Certainly—or run, if need be."
"Then we had better push on a little farther. The Germans are still too close for comfort. Keep your back to the moon—I'll act as rear-guard."
For a moment she looked up questioningly into his face.
"You are sure you are not hurt?" she asked.
"Perfectly sure."
"I was afraid you had been shot—I saw how you placed yourself between me and the river!"
"The merest accident," he assured her. "Besides, those fellows couldn't shoot!"
She gazed up at him yet a moment, her lips quivering; then she turned and started westward through the field.
Falling in behind, Stewart explored his wounded shoulder cautiously with his fingers. He could feel that his shirt was wet with blood, but the stabbing pain had been succeeded by a sharp stinging which convinced him that it was only a flesh-wound. Folding his shirt back, he found it at last, high in the shoulder above the collar-bone.
"That was lucky!" he told himself, as he pressed his handkerchief over it, rebuttoned his shirt, and pushed on after his comrade. "Half an inch lower and the bone would have been smashed!"
Away to the south, they could hear the thunder of the Liège forts, and Stewart, aching from his own slight injury, thought with a shudder of the poor fellows who had to face that deadly fire. No doubt it was to this fresh attack the troops had been marched which they had seen crossing the river. It was improbable that the invaders would risk pushing westward until the forts were reduced; and so, when the fugitives came presently to a road which ran northwestwardly, they ventured to follow it.
"We would better hide somewhere and rest till daylight," Stewart suggested, at last. "We have had a hard day."
He himself was nearly spent with fatigue and hunger, and his shoulder was stiff and sore.
"Very well," the girl agreed. "I too am very tired. Where shall we go?"
Stewart stopped and looked about him.
On one side of the road was a level pasture affording no shelter; on the other side, a rolling field mounted to a strip of woodland.
"At the edge of those trees would be the best place," he decided, and the girl agreed with a nod.
Laboriously they clambered over the wall beside the road and set off toward this refuge. The field was very rough and seemed interminable, and more than once Stewart thought that he must drop where he stood; but they reached the wood at last and threw themselves down beneath the first clump of undergrowth.
Stewart was asleep almost before he touched the ground; but the girl lay for a long time with eyes open, staring up into the night. Then, very softly, she crawled to Stewart's side, raised herself on one elbow and looked down into his face.
It was not at all the face of the man she had met at the Kölner Hof two days before. It was thinner and paler; there were dark circles of exhaustion under the eyes; a stubbly beard covered the haggard cheeks, across one of which was an ugly scratch. Yet the girl seemed to find it beautiful. Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed at it; she brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over the forehead, and bent as though to press a kiss there—but stopped, with a quick shake of the head, and drew away.
"Not yet!" she whispered. "Not yet!" and crawling a little way apart, she lay down again among the bushes.
Again Stewart awoke with the sun in his eyes, and after a moment's confused blinking, he looked around to find himself alone.
The dull pain in his shoulder as he sat up reminded him of his wound. Crawling a little distance back among the bushes, he slipped out of his coat. His shirt was soaked with blood half-way down the right side—a good sign, Stewart told himself. He knew how great a show a little blood can make, and he was glad that the wound had bled freely. He unbuttoned his shirt and gingerly pulled it back from the shoulder, for the blood had dried in places and stuck fast; then he removed the folded handkerchief, and the wound lay revealed.
He could just see it by twisting his head around, and he regarded it with satisfaction, for, as he had thought, it was not much more than a scratch. A bullet had grazed the shoulder-bone, plowed through the muscle and sped on its way, leaving behind, as the only sign of its passage, a tiny black mark.
"You are wounded!" cried a strangled voice, and in an instant his comrade was on her knees beside him, her face pale, her lips working. "And you did not tell me! Oh, cruel, cruel!"
There was that in the voice, in the eyes, in the trembling lips which sent Stewart's heart leaping into his throat. But, by a mighty effort, he kept his arms from around her.
"Nonsense!" he said, as lightly as he could. "That's not a wound—it is just a scratch. This one across my cheek hurts a blamed sight worse! If I could only wash it——"
"There is a little stream back yonder," she said, and sprang to her feet. "Come! Or perhaps you cannot walk!" and she put her arms around him to help him up.
He rose with a laugh.
"Really," he protested, "I don't see how a scratch on the shoulder could affect my legs!"
But she refused to make a jest of it.
"The blood—it frightens me. Are you very weak?" she asked, anxiously, holding tight to him, as though he might collapse at any instant.
"If I am," said Stewart, "it is from want of food, not from loss of blood. I haven't lost a spoonful. Ah, here's the brook!"
He knelt beside it, while she washed the blood from his handkerchief and tenderly bathed the injured shoulder. Stewart watched her with fast-beating heart. Surely she cared; surely there was more than friendly concern in that white face, in those quivering lips. Well, very soon now, he could put it to the touch. He trembled at the thought: would he win or lose?
"Am I hurting you?" she asked, anxiously, for she had felt him quiver.
"Not a bit—the cool water feels delightful. You see it is only a scratch," he added, when the clotted blood had been cleared away. "It will be quite well in two or three days. I sha'n't even have a scar! I think it might have left a scar! What's the use of being wounded, if one hasn't a scar to show for it? And I shall probably never be under fire again!"
She smiled wanly, and a little color crept back into her face.
"How you frightened me!" she said. "I came through the bushes and saw you sitting there, all covered with blood! You might have told me—it was foolish to lie there all night without binding it up. Suppose you had bled to death!" and she wrung out the handkerchief, shook it out in the breeze until it was nearly dry, and bound it tightly over the wound. "How does that feel?"
"It feels splendid! Really it does," he added, seeing that she regarded him doubtfully. "If I feel the least little twinge of pain, I will notify you instantly. I give you my word!"
They sat for a moment silent, gazing into each other's eyes. It was the girl who stirred first.
"I will go to the edge of the wood and reconnoiter," she said, rising a little unsteadily, "while you wash your hands and face. Or shall I stay and help?"
"No," said Stewart, "thank you. I think I am still able to wash my own face—that is, if you think it's any use to wash it!" and he ran his fingers along his stubbly jaws. "Do you think you will like me with a beard?"
"With a beard or without one, it is all the same!" she answered, softly, and slipped quickly away among the trees, leaving Stewart to make what he could of this cryptic utterance.
Despite his gnawing hunger, despite his stiff shoulder and sore muscles, he was very, very happy as he bent above the clear water and drank deep, and bathed hands and face. How good it was to be alive! How good it was to be just here this glorious morning! With no man on earth would he have changed places!
He did not linger over his toilet. Every moment away from his comrade was a moment lost. He found her sitting at the edge of the wood, gazing down across the valley, her hair stirring slightly in the breeze, her whole being radiant with youth. He looked at her for a moment, and then he looked down at himself.
"What a scarecrow I am," he said, and ruefully contemplated a long tear in his coat—merely the largest of half a dozen. "And I lost my collar in that dash last night—I left it on the bank, and didn't dare stop to look for it. Even if we met the Germans now, there would be no danger—they would take us for tramps!"
"I know I look like a scarecrow," she laughed; "but you might have spared telling me!"
"You!" cried Stewart. "A scarecrow! Oh, no; you would attract the birds. They would find you adorable!"
His eyes added that not alone to the birds was she adorable.
She cast one glance at him—a luminous glance, shy yet glad; abashed yet rejoicing. Then she turned away.
"There is a village over yonder," she said. "We can get something to eat there, and find out where we are. Listen! What is that?"
Away to the south a dull rumbling shook the horizon—a mighty shock as of an earthquake.
"The Germans have got their siege-guns into position," he said. "They are attacking Liège again."
Yes, there could be no doubt of it; murder and desolation were stalking across the country to the south. But nothing could be more peaceful than the fields which stretched before them.
"There is no danger here," said Stewart, and led the way down across the rough pasture to the road.
As he mounted the wall, moved by some strange uneasiness, he stopped to look back toward the east; but the road stretched white and empty until it plunged into a strip of woodland a mile away.
Somehow he was not reassured. With that strange uneasiness still weighing on him, a sense of oppression as of an approaching storm, he sprang down beside the girl, and they set off westward side by side. At first they could not see the village, which was hid by a spur of rising ground; then, at a turn of the road, they found it close in front of them.
But the road was blocked with fallen trees, strung with barbed wire—and what was that queer embankment of fresh, yellow earth which stretched to right and left?
"The Belgians!" cried the girl. "Come! We are safe at last!" and she started to run forward.
But only for an instant. As though that cry of hers was an awaited signal, there came a crash of musketry from the wooded ridge to the right, and an answering crash from the crest of the embankment; and Stewart saw that light and speeding figure spin half round, crumple in upon itself, and drop limply to the road.
He was beside her in an instant, his arm around her, raising her. He scarcely heard the guns; he scarcely heard the whistle of the bullets; he knew only, as he knelt there in the road, that his little comrade had been stricken down.
Where was she wounded?
Not in the head, thank God! Not in the throat, so white and delicate. The breast, perhaps, and with trembling fingers he tore aside the coat.
She opened her eyes and looked dazedly up at him.
"Qu'y a-t-il?" she murmured. Then her vision cleared. "What is the matter?" she asked in a stronger voice.
"You've been hit," he panted. "Do you feel pain?"
She closed her eyes for an instant.
"No," she answered; "but my left leg is numb, as if——"
"Pray heaven it is only in the leg! I must get you somewhere out of this." He raised his head to look around, and was suddenly conscious of the banging guns. "Damn these lunatics! Oh, damn them!"
The ridges on either side were rimmed with fire. He cast a glance behind him and his heart stood still, for a troop of cavalry was deploying into the road. Forward, then, to the village, since that was the only way.
He stooped to lift her.
"I may hurt you a little," he said.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to carry you to the village. Here, wave your handkerchief to show them that we are friends," and he drew it from her pocket and thrust it into her hand. "Now, your arm about my neck."
She obeyed mutely; then, as he straightened up, she saw, over his shoulder, the cavalry forming for the charge.
"No, no!" she cried. "Put me down. Here are the letters! See, I am placing them in your pocket! Now, put me down and save yourself!"
He was picking his way forward over the barbed wire. He dared not lift his eyes from the road even for a glance at her.
"Be still!" he commanded. "Don't struggle so! I will not put you down! Wave the handkerchief!"
"There is cavalry down yonder," she protested, wildly. "It will charge in a moment!"
"I know it! That's one reason I will not put you down!"
He was past the wire; he could look at her for an instant—into her eyes, so close to his; deep into her eyes, dark with fear and pain.
"Another reason is," he said, deliberately, "that I love you! I am telling you now because I want you to know, if this should be the end! I love you, love you, love you!"
He was forced to look away from her, for there were fallen trees in front, but he felt the arm around his neck tighten.
And then he bent his head and kissed her.
"Like that!" he said, hoarsely. "Only a thousand times more than that—a million times more than that!"
She pulled herself up until her cheek was pressed to his; and her eyes were like twin stars.
"And I!" she whispered. "A million times more than that. Oh, my prince, my lover!"
Stewart's veins ran fire. His fatigue dropped from him. He trod on air. He threw back his head proudly, for he felt himself invincible. He was contemptuous of fate—it could not harm him now!
"And yet you wanted me to put you down!" he mocked.
She snuggled against him, warm and womanly; she gave herself to him.
"Oh, hold me close!" she seemed to say. "Hold me close, close! I am yours now!"
"Wave the handkerchief!" he added. "We're getting near the barricade. Life is too sweet to end just yet!"
She smiled up into his eyes, and waved the handkerchief at arm's length above their heads. Stewart, glancing up, saw a row of faces crowned by queer black shakos peering curiously down from the top of the barricade.
"They have seen us!" he said. "They're not firing! They understand that we are friends! Courage, little comrade!"
"I am not afraid," she smiled. "And I love that name—little comrade!"
"Here are the last entanglements—and then we're through. What is that cavalry doing?"
She gave a little cry as she looked back along the road. At the same instant, Stewart heard the thunder of galloping hoofs.
"They are coming!" she screamed. "Oh, put me down! Put me down!"
"Not I!" gasped Stewart between his teeth, and glanced over his shoulder.
The Uhlans were charging in solid mass, their lances couched.
There was just one chance of escape—Stewart saw it instantly. Holding the girl close, he leaped into the ditch beside the road and threw himself flat against the ground, shielding her with his body.
In an instant the thunder of the charge was upon him. Then, high above the rattle of guns, rose the shouts of men, the screams of horses, the savage shock of the encounter. Something rolled upon him,—lay quivering against him—a wounded man—a dead one, perhaps—in any event, he told himself, grimly, so much added protection. Pray heaven that a maddened horse did not tramp them down!
The tumult died, the firing slackened. What was that? A burst of cheering?
Stewart ventured to raise his head and look about him; then, with a gasp, he threw off the weight, caught up his companion and staggered to his feet. Yes; it was a body which had fallen upon him. It rolled slowly over on its back as he arose, and he saw a ghastly wound between the eyes.
"They have been repulsed!" he panted. "Wave the handkerchief!" With his heart straining in his throat, he clambered out of the ditch and staggered on. "Don't look!" he added, for the road was strewn with horrors. "Don't look!"
She gazed up at him, smiling calmly.
"I shall look only at you, my lover!" she said, softly, and Stewart tightened his grip and held her close!
There was the barricade, with cheering men atop it, exposing themselves with utter recklessness to the bullets which still whistled from right and left. Stewart felt his knees trembling. Could he reach it? Could he lift his foot over this entanglement? Could he possibly step across this body?
Suddenly he felt his burden lifted from him and a strong arm thrown about his shoulders.
"Friends!" he gasped. "We're friends!"
Then he heard the girl's clear voice speaking in rapid French, and men's voices answering eagerly. The mist cleared a little from before his eyes, and he found that the arm about his shoulders belonged to a stocky Belgian soldier who was leading him past one end of the barricade, close behind another who bore the girl in his arms.
At the other side an officer stopped them.
"Who are you?" he asked in French. "From where do you come?"
"We are friends," said the girl. "We have fled from Germany. We have both been wounded."
"Yes," said Stewart, and showed his blood-stained shirt. "Mine is only a scratch, but my comrade needs attention."
A sudden shout from the top of the barricade told that the Uhlans were re-forming.
"You must look out for yourselves," said the officer. "I will hear your story later," and he bounded back to his place beside his men.
The soldier who was carrying the girl dropped her abruptly into Stewart's arms and followed his captain. In an instant the firing recommenced.
Stewart looked wildly about him. He was in a village street, with close-built houses on either side.
"I must find a wagon," he gasped, "or something——"
His breath failed him, but he staggered on. The mist was before his eyes again, his tongue seemed dry and swollen.
Suddenly the arm about his neck relaxed, the head fell back——
He cast one haggard glance down into the white face, then turned through the nearest doorway.
Perhaps she was wounded more seriously than he had thought—perhaps she had not told him. He must see—he must make sure——
He found himself in a tiled passage, opening into a low-ceilinged room lighted by a single window. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, he stared blindly; then he saw a low settle against the farther wall, and upon this he gently laid his burden.
Before he could catch himself, he had fallen heavily to the floor, and lay there for a moment, too weak to rise. But the weakness passed. With set teeth, he pulled himself to his knees, got out his knife, found, with his fingers, the stain of blood above the wound in the leg, and quickly ripped away the cloth.
The bullet had passed through the thickness of the thigh, leaving a tiny puncture. With a sob of thankfulness, he realized that the wound was not dangerous. Blood was still oozing slowly from it—it must be washed and dressed.
He found a pail of water in the kitchen, snatched a sheet from a bed in another room, and set to work. The familiar labor steadied him, the mists cleared, his muscles again obeyed his will, the sense of exhaustion passed.
"It is only a scratch!" whispered a voice, and he turned sharply to find her smiling up at him. "It is just a scratch like yours!"
"It is much more than a scratch!" he said, sternly. "You must lie still, or you will start the bleeding."
"Tyrant!" she retorted, and then she raised her head and looked to see what he was doing. "Oh! is it there?" she said, in surprise. "I didn't feel it there!"
"Where did you feel it?" Stewart demanded. "Not in the body? Tell me the truth!"
"It seemed to me to be somewhere below the knee. But how savage you are!"
"I'm savage because you are hurt. I can't stand it to see you suffer!" and with lips compressed, he bandaged the wound with some strips torn from the sheet. Then he ran his fingers down over the calf, and brought them away stained with blood. He caught up his knife and ripped the cloth clear down.
"Really," she protested, "I shall not have any clothing left, if you keep on like that! I do not see how I am going to appear in public as it is!"
He grimly washed the blood away without replying. On either side of the calf, he found a tiny black spot where the second bullet had passed through.
"These German bullets seem to be about the size of peas," he remarked, as he bandaged the leg; then he raised his head and listened, as the firing outside rose to a furious crescendo. "They're at it again!" he added. "We must be getting out of this!"
She reached up, caught him by the coat, and drew him down to her.
"Listen," she said. "The letters are in your pocket. Should we be separated——"
"We will not be separated," he broke in, impatiently. "Do you suppose I would permit anything to separate us now?"
"I know, dear one," she said, softly. "But if we should be, you will carry the letters to General Joffre? Oh, do not hesitate!" she cried. "Promise me! They mean so much to me—my life's work—all my ambitions—all my hopes——"
"Very well," he said. "I promise."
"You have not forgotten the sign and the formula?"
"No."
She passed an arm about his neck and drew him still closer.
"Kiss me!" she whispered.
And Stewart, shaken, transported, deliriously happy, pressed his lips to hers in a long, close, passionate embrace.
At last she drew her arm away.
"I am very tired," she whispered, smiling dreamily up at him; "and very, very happy. I do not believe I can go on, dear one."
"I will get a wagon of some kind—a hand-cart, if nothing better. There must be ambulances somewhere about——"
He paused, listening, for the firing at the barricade had started furiously again.
"I will be back in a moment," he said, and ran to the street door and looked out. As he did so, a wounded soldier hobbled past, using his rifle as a crutch.
"How goes it?" Stewart inquired, in French.
"We hold them off," answered the soldier, smiling cheerfully, though his face was drawn with pain.
"Will they break through?"
"No. Our reënforcements are coming up," and the little soldier hobbled away down the street.
"I should have asked him where the ambulances are," thought Stewart. He glanced again toward the barricade. The firing had slackened; evidently the assailants had again been repulsed. Yes, there was time, and he darted down the street after the limping soldier. He was at his side in a moment. "Where are the ambulances?" he asked.
The soldier, turning to reply, glanced back along the street and his face went livid.
"Ah, good God!" he groaned. "Look yonder!"
And, looking, Stewart beheld a gray-green flood pouring over the barricade, beheld the flash of reddened bayonets, beheld the little band of Belgians swept backward.
With a cry of anguish, he sprang back along the street, but in an instant the tide was upon him. He fought against it furiously, striking, cursing, praying——
And suddenly he found himself face to face with the Belgian officer, blood-stained, demoniac, shouting encouragement to his men. His eyes flashed with amazement when he saw Stewart.
"Go back! Go back!" he shouted.
"My comrade is back there!" panted Stewart, and tried to pass.
But the officer caught his arm.
"Madman!" he cried. "It is death to go that way!"
"What is that to me?" retorted Stewart, and wrenched his arm away.
The officer watched him for an instant, then turned away with a shrug. After all, he reflected, it was none of his affair; his task was to hold the Germans back, and he threw himself into it.
"Steady, men!" he shouted. "Steady! Our reserves are coming!"
And his men cheered and held a firm front, though it cost them dear—so firm and steady that Stewart found he could not get past it, but was carried back foot by foot, too exhausted to resist, entangled hopelessly in the retreat. The Germans pressed forward, filling the street from side to side, compact, irresistible.
And then the Belgians heard behind them the gallop of horses, the roll of heavy wheels, and their captain, glancing back, saw that a quick-firer had swung into position in the middle of the street.
"Steady, men!" he shouted. "We have them now! Steady till I give the word!" He glanced back again and caught the gun-captain's nod. "Now! To the side and back!" he screamed.
The men, with a savage cheer, sprang to right and left, into doorways, close against the walls, and the gun, with a purr of delight, let loose its lightnings into the advancing horde.
Stewart, who had been swept aside with the others without understanding what was happening, gasping, rubbing his eyes, staring down the street, saw the gray line suddenly stop and crumple up. Then, with a savage yell, it dashed forward and stopped again. He saw an officer raise his sword to urge them on, then fall crashing to the street; he saw that instant of indecision which is fatal to any charge; and then stark terror ran through the ranks, and they turned to flee.
But the pressure from the rear cut off escape in that direction, and the human flood burst into the houses on either side, swept through them, out across the fields, and away. And steadily the little gun purred on, as though reveling in its awful work, until the street was clear.
But the Germans, though they had suffered terribly, were not yet routed. A remnant of them held together behind the houses at the end of the street, and still others took up a position behind the barricade and swept the street with their rifles.
The little officer bit his lip in perplexity as he looked about at his company, so sadly reduced in numbers. Should he try to retake the barricade with a rush, or should he wait for reënforcements? He loved his men—surely, they had more than played their part. Then his eye was caught by a bent figure which dodged from doorway to doorway.
"That madman again!" he muttered, and watched, expecting every instant to see him fall.
For Stewart had not waited for the captain's decision. Almost before the Germans turned to flee, he was creeping low along the wall, taking advantage of such shelter as there was. The whistle of the machine-gun's bullets filled the street. One nipped him across the wrist, another grazed his arm, and then, as the Germans rallied, he saw ahead of him the vicious flashes of their rifles.
He was not afraid; indeed, he was strangely calm. He was quite certain that he would not be killed—others might fall, but not he. Others—yes, here they were; dozens, scores, piled from wall to wall. For here was where the machine-gun had caught the German advance and smote it down. They lay piled one upon another, young men, all of them; some lying with arms flung wide, staring blindly up at the sky; a few moaning feebly, knowing only that they suffered; two or three trying to pull themselves from beneath the heap of dead; one coward burrowing deeper into it! He could hear the thud, thud of the bullets from either end of the street as they struck the mass of bodies, dead and wounded alike, until there were no longer any wounded; until even the coward lay still!
Sick and dizzy, he pushed on. Was this the house? The door stood open and he stepped inside and looked around. No, this was not it.
The next one, perhaps—all these houses looked alike from the street. As he reached the door, a swirl of acrid smoke beat into his face. He looked out quickly. The barricade was obscured by smoke; dense masses rolled out of the houses on either side. The Germans had fired the village!
Into the next house Stewart staggered—vainly; and into the next. He could hear the crackling of the flames; the smoke grew thicker——
Into the next!
He knew it the instant he crossed the threshold; yes, this was the entry, this was the room, there was the settle——
He stopped, staring, gasping——
The settle was empty.
Slowly he stepped forward, gazing about him. Yes, there was the bucket of water on the floor, just as he had left it; there were the blood-stained rags; there was the torn sheet.
But the settle was empty.
He threw himself beside it and ran his hands over it, to be sure that his eyes were not deceiving him.
No; the settle was empty.
He ran into the next room and the next. He ran all through the house calling, "Comrade! Little comrade!"
But there was no reply. The rooms were empty, one and all.
Half-suffocated, palsied with despair, he reeled back to the room where he had left her, and stared about it. Could he be mistaken? No; there was the bucket, the bandages——
But what was that dark stain in the middle of the white, sanded floor. He drew close and looked at it. It was blood.
Still staring, he backed away. Blood—whose blood? Not hers! Not his little comrade's!
And suddenly his strength fell from him; he staggered, dropped to his knees——
This was the end, then—this was the end. There on the settle was where she had lain; it was there she had drawn him down for that last caress; and the letters,—ah, they would never be delivered now! But at least he could die there, with his head where hers had been.
Blinded, choking, he dragged himself forward—here was the place!
"Little comrade!" he murmured. "Little comrade!"
And he fell forward across the settle, his face buried in his arms.