“No.”
She passed an arm about his neck and drew him still closer.
“Kiss me!” she whispered.
And Stewart, shaken, transported, deliriously happy, pressed his lips to hers in a long, close, passionate embrace.
At last she drew her arm away.
“I am very tired,” she whispered, smiling dreamily up at him; “and very, very happy. I do not believe I can go on, dear one.”
“I will get a wagon of some kind—a hand-cart, if nothing better. There must be ambulances somewhere about——”
He paused, listening, for the firing at the barricade had started furiously again.
“I will be back in a moment,” he said, and ran to the street door and looked out. As he did so, a wounded soldier hobbled past, using his rifle as a crutch.
“How goes it?” Stewart inquired, in French.