"Please—please," the girl moaned, "oh, please don't come in! I won't cry again!"
He hesitated, as if considering; then growled a threat and turned back.
Waiting until he had quite gone and the last sound of his boots upon the rubble had died away, Jeb summoned his French and cautiously whispered:
"I'm your friend—don't make a noise!"
A slight movement in the corner first answered him, then a wee voice asked:
"Is Monsieur English?"
"No, American."
The sound which followed this lingered in his ears long afterward. It was scarcely a gasp, nor moan, nor groan, but an inarticulate animal sound expressive of what the body feels when snatched in the nick of time from destruction. A moment later she had crawled through the darkness; her hands passed quickly over his sleeve, his shoulder, then found his neck and clasped it passionately.
Drawing her gently to his lap he realized that she was merely a child who had come to him—a skeleton child, of perhaps eight or nine years old, seeming to be little more than bones dressed in scanty clothing. Touching his lips to her cheeks he whispered encouragement, promising prodigious things without regard to their possible accomplishment, until her body ceased to quiver. Then she whispered tremulously:
"Are you the American who fed us?"