If it had been for France alone, Stewart might still have hesitated; but as he gazed down into that eloquent face, wrung with desperate anxiety, he seemed to see, as in a vision, a file of soldiers in spiked helmets facing a wall where stood a lovely girl, her eyes flaming, her head flung back, smiling contemptuously at the leveled rifles; he saw again the flickering candles at the Virgin's feet——
"Very well," he said, abruptly—almost harshly. "I consent."
Before he could draw back, she had flung herself on her knees before him, had caught his hand, and was covering it with tears and kisses.
"Come, come, my dear," he said. "That won't do!" And he bent over her and raised her to her feet.
She was shaken with great sobs, and as she turned her streaming eyes up to him, her lips moving as if in prayer, Stewart saw how young she was, how lonely, how beautiful, how greatly in need of help. She had been fighting for her country with all her strength, with every resource, desperately, every nerve a-strain—and victory had been too much for her. But in a moment she had back her self-control.
"There, it is finished!" she said, smiling through her tears. "But the joy of your words was almost too great. I shall not behave like that again. And I shall not try to thank you. I think you understand—I cannot thank you—there are no words great enough."
Stewart nodded, smilingly.
"Yes; I understand," he said.
"We have many things to do," she went on, rapidly, passing her handkerchief across her eyes with the gesture of one who puts sentiment aside. "First, the passport," and she caught it up from the chair on which she had laid it.
"I would point out to you," said Stewart, "that there may be a certain danger in adding the words you mentioned."