Once only Hannah Gropphusen broke the silence: "You have hurt your hand?" she asked.
"Yes--no--I don't know."
It was almost dark when they reached her garden gate.
"Show me your hand," she said gently.
Reimers held it out to her in silence. His wrist was a good deal swollen.
Hannah bent down suddenly and breathed a hasty kiss on the injured member. When she raised her head again tears were running down her cheeks.
Reimers stooped a little. He seized her cool white fingers and kissed them lingeringly. "Hannah!" he murmured.
She tenderly stroked his brow and bent her head sadly. Then he left her.
When he had gone some distance he looked back. All was dark. A flash of lightning shimmered on the horizon. It revealed an indistinct figure, which was instantly swallowed up again by the darkness.
"Nothing much, old man," pronounced the surgeon-major, when he had examined the injury. "You have strained it a bit. A tight bandage and an application of arnica. You can go on duty, but you will not be able to play tennis for the present."