But the warning was too late. Another bomb fell. A piece of flying shrapnel struck Venna.
Her hands clasped in prayer and her lips moved inaudibly as she sank upon the ground.
Tenderly the soldier leaned over Venna's still form. The moonlight lit the ghastly wound in her forehead.
"Dead!" exclaimed the soldier, horrified.
Gently he lifted Venna in his big, strong arms and made for the hospital.
"Damn!" he muttered. "Why didn't the hellish thing hit me?"
CHAPTER XVIII.
"Somewhere in France."
In a convalescing tent sat a young officer, writing. When finished, he took up the letter for perusal.
"Venna Dearest: