Half-suffocated, palsied with despair, he reeled back to the room where he had left her, and stared about it. Could he be mistaken? No; there was the bucket, the bandages——
But what was that dark stain in the middle of the white, sanded floor. He drew close and looked at it. It was blood.
Still staring, he backed away. Blood—whose blood? Not hers! Not his little comrade’s!
And suddenly his strength fell from him; he staggered, dropped to his knees——
This was the end, then—this was the end. There on the settle was where she had lain; it was there she had drawn him down for that last caress; and the letters,—ah, they would never be delivered now! But at least he could die there, with his head where hers had been.
Blinded, choking, he dragged himself forward—here was the place!
“Little comrade!” he murmured. “Little comrade!”
And he fell forward across the settle, his face buried in his arms.
CHAPTER XVI
A TRUST FULFILLED
When Stewart opened his eyes again it was to find himself looking up into a good-humored face, which he did not at first recognize. It was brown and dirty, there was a three-days’ growth of beard upon cheeks and chin, and a deep red scratch across the forehead, but the eyes were bright and the lips smiling, as of a man superior to every fortune—and then he recognized the little Belgian captain whose troops had defended the village.