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.