And Stewart, as briefly as might be, told the story—the meeting at Aix, the arrest at Herbesthal, the flight over the hills, the passage of the Meuse, the attack on the village—his voice faltering at the end despite his effort to control it.
At first, the staff had kept on with its examination of the plans, but first one and then another laid them down and listened.
For a moment after he had finished, they sat silent, regarding him. Then General Joffre rose slowly to his feet, and the members of his staff rose with him.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I shall not attempt to tell you how your words have moved me; but on behalf of France I thank you; on her behalf I give you the highest honor which it is in her power to bestow.” His hand went to his buttonhole and detached a tiny red ribbon. In a moment he had affixed it to Stewart’s coat. “The Legion, monsieur!” he said, and he stepped back and saluted.
Stewart, a mist of tears before his eyes, his throat suddenly contracted, looked down at the decoration, gleaming on his lapel like a spot of blood.
“It is too much,” he protested, brokenly. “I do not deserve——”
“It is the proudest order in the world, monsieur,” broke in the general, “but it is not too much. You have done for France a greater thing than you perhaps imagine. Some day you will know. Not soon, I fear,” and his face hardened. “We have other work to do before we can make use of these sheets of paper. You saw the German army?”
“Yes, sir; a part of it.”
“It is well equipped?”
“It seemed to me irresistible,” said Stewart. “I had never imagined such swarms of men, such tremendous cannon——”