Again the officer shook his head, his eyes still on the billowing smoke.
“It is very strange,” he murmured.
“I must go back!” cried Stewart. “I must search for her!” and he tried to rise.
The other put out a hand to stop him, but drew it back, seeing it unnecessary.
“Impossible!” he said. “You see, you cannot even stand!”
“I have had nothing to eat since yesterday,” Stewart explained. “Then only some eggs and apples. If I could get some food——”
He broke off, his chin quivering helplessly, as he realized his weakness. He was very near to tears.
“Even if you could walk,” the other pointed out, “even if you were quite strong, it would still be impossible. The Germans have burned the village; they are now on this side of it. If Madame is still alive, she is safe. Barbarians as they are, they would not kill a wounded woman!”
“Oh, you don’t know!” groaned Stewart. “You don’t know! They would kill her without compunction!” and weakness and hunger and despair were too much for him. He threw himself forward on his face, shaken by great sobs.
The little officer sat quite still, his face very sad. There was no glory about war—that was merely a fiction to hold soldiers to their work; it was all horrible, detestable, inhuman. He had seen brave men killed, torn, mutilated; he had seen inoffensive people driven from their homes and left to starve; he had seen women weeping for their husbands and children for their fathers; he had seen terror stalk across the quiet countryside—famine, want, despair——