“I only know I’m starving!” said Stewart. “If I’ve been poisoned by anything, it’s by the virus of appetite!”
“If you were in your own country, and found yourself hungry, would you break into the first house you came to in order to get food?” she demanded. “Certainly not—you would do without food before you would do that. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” said Stewart, in a low tone. “That is so. You are right.”
“Perhaps I can find something,” she said, more gently. “At least I will try. Remain here for a moment,” and she hurried away toward the outbuildings.
Stewart stared out into the road and reflected how easy—how inevitable almost—it was to become a robber among thieves, a murderer among cut-throats. And he understood how it happens that in war even the kindliest man may become blood-thirsty, even the most honest a looter of defenseless homes.
“See what I have found!” cried a voice, and he turned to see the girl running toward him with hands outstretched. In each hand she held three eggs.
“Very well for a beginning,” he commented. “Now for the melon, the bacon, the rolls, the butter, and the coffee!”
“I fear that those must wait,” she said. “Here is your breakfast,” and she handed him three of the eggs.
Stewart looked at them rather blankly.
“Thanks!” he said. “But I don’t quite see——”