"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.
"Do not despair, I beg of you, my friend. She is not dead—it is impossible that she should be dead! Fate could not be so cruel. With her you shared a few glorious days of peril, of trial, and of ecstasy—then you were whirled apart. But only for a time. Somewhere, sometime, you will find her again, awaiting you. I know it! I feel it!"
But it was no longer Fernande that Stewart heard—it was another voice, subtle, delicate, out of the unknown——
His bosom lifted with a deep, convulsive breath.
"You are right!" he whispered. "I, too, feel it! Sometime—somewhere——"
And his trembling fingers sought that tress of lustrous hair, warm above his heart.