The paroxysm passed, and Stewart gradually regained his self-control.
“You will, of course, do as you think best,” said his companion, at last; “but I could perhaps be of help if I knew more. How do you come to be in these rags? Why was Madame dressed as a man? Why should the Germans kill her? These are things that I should like to know—but you will tell me as much or as little as you please.”
Before he was well aware of it, so hungry was he for comfort, Stewart found himself embarked upon the story. It flowed from his lips so rapidly, so brokenly, as poignant memory stabbed through him, that more than once his listener stopped him and asked him to repeat. For the rest, he sat staring out at the burning village, his eyes bright, his hands clenched.
And when the story was over, he arose, faced the east, and saluted stiffly.
“Madame!” he said—and so paid her the highest tribute in a soldier’s power.
Then he sat down again, and there was a moment’s silence.
“What you have told me,” he said, slowly, at last, “moves me beyond words! Believe me, I would advance this instant, I would risk my whole command, if I thought there was the slightest chance of rescuing that intrepid and glorious woman. But there is no chance. That village is held by at least a regiment.”
“What could have happened?” asked Stewart, again. “Where could she have gone?”
“I cannot imagine. I can only hope that she is safe. Most probably she has been taken prisoner. Even in that case, there is little danger that she will ever be recognized.”
“But why should they take prisoner a wounded civilian?” Stewart persisted. “I cannot understand it—unless——”