The Colonel managed a few short words. There was no possibility of softening what had to be said.
"To-night—the citadel. To-morrow—to Bitche!"
"To Bitche!" echoed Lucille. "Ah-h!"
To Bitche—that terrible fortress prison, the nightmare of Verdun prisoners! Their Roy to be sent to Bitche! Mrs. Baron swayed slightly, as if on the verge of fainting. Her petted Roy, her idolised darling, her boy so tenderly cared for—to be hurried away to Bitche!
It could hardly have been said which of the two Lucille was watching with the more strained attention—Mrs. Baron, stunned and wordless, or Denham Ivor, with that fixed, still face of suffering.
"And nothing—nothing—can be done?" she asked.
"We have tried—everything," the Colonel answered gloomily.
[CHAPTER XXI]
A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY
"Now, my dear Polly, I pray you make the very most this evening of your charms. Somebody will be there whom you little think to see."