“Monsieur, there are some sorrows that are sacred.”
The words, the accent, the suffering implied went to my heart. I felt then as I have ever felt since the indefinable superiority of her gentle nature over mine.
“Mademoiselle, I know that this may seem incomprehensible to you; I have been walking here half an hour, before I dared to speak to you, but—but I cannot go away and leave you here alone.”
Saying which, I bowed and moved away a little distance and took my station resolutely. Presently she said:
“Monsieur—you will not leave me?”
“I cannot, Mademoiselle.”
“Oh, please go away; please leave me alone!”
Her voice broke and, as I hurried to her side, she put her head suddenly down on her arms. A film of her veil whipped by the wind caught my arm, and by this slender bond I held her in my protection.
“Mademoiselle, I, too, am a soldier of France; I have fought with your people: must I turn from one of my own kind who, I know, is in distress, just because of conventionality! You are in distress, and I know it. Please let me judge for you at this moment. You must not stay up here alone. I mean it.”