"Of course you may," he said.
She bent again, bent till her lips just touched the dead man's brow.
"I won't disturb you, preux chevalier," she whispered. "Only good-night, dear! Good-night!"
For a little while she stood looking down upon the dead man's rest; but at length she turned away, drawing her husband with her, and went to the open window.
Hand in hand they looked out upon a world in which "all things were made new." They spoke no word. They thought the same thoughts together, and no words were needed.
Only when they turned at length from the shimmering sunlight back into the quiet room, their eyes met. And in the silence Trevor Mordaunt bent with reverence and kissed the living, as she had kissed the dead.
CHAPTER XII
THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! The procession was passing under the windows.
Bertrand de Montville, the vindicated hero, was being borne to his soldier's grave on the hill by the fortress. Soldiers preceded him. Soldiers followed him. A mixed crowd of journalists—men from all parts of Europe—came after. And from the window above, his little pal looked down.