“Thank you,” said Stewart. “That is all, I think.”
“And you?”
“I? Oh, what does it matter!” And then he turned, fired by a sudden remembrance of a great white tent, of loaded ambulances. “Yes—there is something I might do. I am a surgeon. Will France accept my services?”
“She is honored to do so,” said the general, quickly. “I will see that it is done. Until to-morrow—I will expect you,” and he held out his hand, while the staff came to a stiff salute.
“Until to-morrow,” repeated Stewart, and followed Fernande to the door.
As he passed out, he glanced behind him. The members of the staff were bending above those red-lined sheets, their faces shining with eagerness——
The officers in the outer room, catching sight of the red ribbon, saluted as he passed. The sentry in the hall came stiffly to attention.
But Stewart’s heart was bitter. Honor! Glory! What were they worth to him alone and desolate——
“Monsieur!” It was Fernande’s voice, low, vibrant with sympathy. “You will pardon me for what I am about to say—but I think I understand. It was not alone for France you did this thing—it was for that ‘little comrade,’ as you have called her, so brave, so loyal, so indomitable that my heart is at her feet. Is it not so?”
He came a step nearer and laid a tender hand on Stewart’s arm.