Part 43 (1/2)

Once he laid down his book and told her of the Prince of Argolis and aethra; of the sandals and sword, of Medea, and of the wreathed wine-cup. He told her, too, of the Isantee, and the legends of the gray gull, of Harpan and Chaske, and the white lodge of hope.

She listened like a tired child, her wrist curved under her chin, the bath-robe close to her throat. While she listened she moved her feet gently in the hot water, nestling back with the thrill of the warmth that mounted to her cheeks.

Then they were silent, their eyes on each other.

Down-stairs some rain-soaked officer was playing on the piano old songs of Lorraine and Alsace. He tried to sing, too, but his voice broke, whether from emotion or hoa.r.s.eness they could not tell. A moment or two later a dripping infantry band marched out to the conservatory and began to play. The dismal trombone vibrated like a fog-horn, the wet drums buzzed and clattered, the trumpets wailed with the rising wind in the chimneys. They played for an hour, then stopped abruptly in the middle of ”Partons pour la Syrie,” and Jack and Lorraine heard them trampling away--slop, slop--across the gravel drive.

The fire in the room made the air heavy, and he raised one window a little way, but the wet wind was rank with the odour of disinfectants and ether from the stable hospital, and he closed the window after a moment.

”I spent all the morning with the wounded,” said Lorraine, from the depths of her chair. The child-like light in her eyes had gone; nothing but woman's sorrow remained in their gray-blue depths.

Jack rose, picked up a big soft towel, and, deliberately lifting one of her feet from the water, rubbed it until it turned rosy.

Then he rubbed the other, wrapped the bath-robe tightly about her, lifted her in his arms, threw back the bed-covers, and laid her there snug and warm.

”Sleep,” he said.

She held up both arms with a divine smile.

”Stay with me until I sleep,” she murmured drowsily. Her eyes closed; one hand sought his.

After a while she fell asleep.

XXIV

LORRAINE AWAKES

When Lorraine had been asleep for an hour, Jack stole from the room and sought the old general who was in command of the park.

He found him on the terrace, smoking and watching the woods through his field-gla.s.ses.

”Monsieur,” said Jack, ”my ward, Mademoiselle de Nesville, is asleep in her chamber. I must go to the forest yonder and try to find her father's body. I dare not leave her alone unless I may confide her to you.”

”My son,” said the old man, ”I accept the charge. Can you give me the next room?”

”The next room is where our little Sister of Mercy died.”

”I have journeyed far with death--I am at home in death's chamber,” said the old general. He followed Jack to the death-room, accompanied by his aide-de-camp.

”It will do,” he said. Then, turning to an aid, ”Place a sentry at the next door. When the lady awakes, call me.”

”Thank you,” said Jack. He lingered a moment and then continued: ”If I am shot in the woods--if I don't return--General Chanzy will take charge of Mademoiselle de Nesville, for my uncle's sake. They are sword-brothers.”

”I accept the responsibility,” said the old general, gravely.

They bowed to each other, and Jack went out and down the stairs to the lawn. For a moment he looked up into the sky, trying to remember where the balloon might have been when Von Steyr's explosive bullet set it on fire. Then he trudged on into the wood-road, buckling his revolver-case under his arm and adjusting the cross-strap of his field-gla.s.ses.

Once in the forest he breathed more freely. There was an odour of rotting leaves in the wet air; the branches quivered and dripped, and the tree-trunks, moist and black, exhaled a rank aroma of lichens and rain-soaked moss.

Along the park wall, across the Lisse, sentinels stood in the rain, peering out of their caped overcoats or rambling along the river-bank.

A spiritless challenge or two halted him for a few moments, but he gave the word and pa.s.sed on. Once or twice squads met him and pa.s.sed with the relief, sick boyish soldiers, crusted with mud. Twice he met groups of roving, restless-eyed franc-tireurs in straight caps and sheepskin jackets, but they did not molest him nor even question him beyond asking the time of day.