The airman looked at his watch. "By Jove, it is midnight!" he said. "Pippa, our day is over——"
Tears sprang to her eyes, and her hands groped for his. "But no, monsieur," she cried, "you must not go. It will be so lonely."
He leaned over and covered her little hands with his large, tanned ones. "It will be lonely for me as well," he said.
"But you will come back, Your Majesty? Perhaps—next Easter?"
He gently stroked her hand. "On my honor," he said, "I will come on the Tuesday at dawn. You will be there?"
He released her hands as she slowly rose and crossed once more to the window.
"At daybreak," she said very quietly, gazing at the steely brilliance of the running water, "I will watch from the hill. And if you do not come, though I shall weep a little, I shall say, 'He is fighting, and could not leave for little Pippa. Next year he will come.'"
"And supposing, little one, he does not come the next year either?"
She leaned her arm against the window-pane and rested her cheek on it. "I shall watch again at dawn, monsieur"—the words were spoken very slowly—"and I shall say, 'He is not coming…. He has gone to be with his brothers who went, out into the sunlight, smiling so bravely——'"
Her words ended in a half-sob, and she pressed her face with both hands.