The Emperor took the box, still looking at Jack.
There was a moment's silence, then Jack spoke: "It may be too late. It is a plan of a balloon—we brought it to you from Lorraine—"
The uproar in the streets drowned his voice—"Mort à l'Empereur! À bas l'Empire!"
A staff-officer opened the door and peered in; the Emperor stepped to the threshold.
"I thank you—I thank you both, my children," he said. His eyes wandered again towards the bed; the cries in the street rang out furiously.
"Mort à l'Empereur!"
The Sister of Mercy was kneeling by the bed; Jack shivered, and dropped his head.
When he looked up the Emperor had gone.
All night long he watched at the bedside, leaning on his elbow, one hand shading his eyes from the candle-flame. The Sister of Mercy, white and worn with the duties of that terrible day, slept upright in an arm-chair.
Dawn brought the sad notes of Prussian trumpets from the ramparts pealing through the devastated city; at sunrise the pavements rang and shook with the trample of the White Cuirassiers. A Saxon infantry band burst into the "Wacht am Rhine" at the Paris Gate; the Place Turenne vomited Uhlans. Jack sank down by the bed, burying his face in the sheets.