A bullet had entered the eye of Arnaud Rigaux, and, passing through his brain, had taken away a portion of his skull, causing instant death. That left eye, as he reeled and fell backwards, was blotted out, for it was only a clot of blood.
“Aimée!” shouted a voice.
The girl, startled, turned to encounter a man in a grey uniform—a German infantryman! He wore a small round grey cap, and in its front the little circular cockade of blue and white—the mark of the Bavarian.
“Aimée!”
The girl stared into the face of her rescuer.
It was Edmond—Edmond—her own dear Edmond—and dressed as a Bavarian!
“The infernal spy!” he cried in a hard, rough voice. “I caught the fellow just in time, my darling. For two years past I have known the truth—that in addition to being our worst enemy—he has also been a traitor to our King and country, and your father’s false friend.”
“But Edmond?” gasped the girl, staring at him like one in a dream. “Why are you here—dressed as a German?”
“Hush!” he whispered. “If I am caught I shall be shot as a spy! I must not talk, or I may betray myself. Come with me. We must get back at once to the Belgian line.”
“But—but how?” she gasped, for now the truth had dawned upon her—the truth of the great risk her lover ran in penetrating to the invested town.