It was the general himself who spoke the final word.
"This is the weak spot," he pointed out, his finger upon the last sheet of all. Then he turned to Stewart, his eyes gleaming. "Monsieur," he said, "I will not conceal from you that these papers are, as Fernande guessed, of the very first importance. Will you tell us how they came into your possession?"
And Stewart, as briefly as might be, told the story--the meeting at Aix, the arrest at Herbesthal, the flight over the hills, the passage of the Meuse, the attack on the village--his voice faltering at the end despite his effort to control it.
At first, the staff had kept on with its examination of the plans, but first one and then another laid them down and listened.
For a moment after he had finished, they sat silent, regarding him. Then General Joffre rose slowly to his feet, and the members of his staff rose with him.
"Monsieur," he said, "I shall not attempt to tell you how your words have moved me; but on behalf of France I thank you; on her behalf I give you the highest honor which it is in her power to bestow." His hand went to his buttonhole and detached a tiny red ribbon. In a moment he had affixed it to Stewart's coat. "The Legion, monsieur!" he said, and he stepped back and saluted.
Stewart, a mist of tears before his eyes, his throat suddenly contracted, looked down at the decoration, gleaming on his lapel like a spot of blood.
"It is too much," he protested, brokenly. "I do not deserve----"
"It is the proudest order in the world, monsieur," broke in the general, "but it is not too much. You have done for France a greater thing than you perhaps imagine. Some day you will know. Not soon, I fear," and his face hardened. "We have other work to do before we can make use of these sheets of paper. You saw the German army?"
"Yes, sir; a part of it."
"It is well equipped?"
"It seemed to me irresistible," said Stewart. "I had never imagined such swarms of men, such tremendous cannon----"
"We have heard something of those cannon," broke in the general. "Are they really so tremendous?"
"I know nothing about cannon," answered Stewart; "but----" and he described as well as he could the three monsters he had seen rolling along the road toward Liege.
His hearers listened closely, asked a question or two----
"I thank you again," said the general, at last. "What you tell us is most interesting. Is there anything else that I can do for you? If there is, I pray you to command me."
Stewart felt himself shaken by a sudden convulsive trembling.
"If I could get some news," he murmured, brokenly, "of--of my little comrade."
General Joffre shot him a quick glance. His face softened, grew tender with comprehension.
"Fernande," he said.
Fernande bowed.
"Everything possible shall be done, my general," he said. "I promise it.
We shall not be long without tidings."
"Thank you," said Stewart. "That is all, I think."
"And you?"
"I? Oh, what does it matter!" And then he turned, fired by a sudden remembrance of a great white tent, of loaded ambulances. "Yes--there is something I might do. I am a surgeon. Will France accept my services?"
"She is honored to do so," said the general, quickly. "I will see that it is done. Until to-morrow--I will expect you," and he held out his hand, while the staff came to a stiff salute.
"Until to-morrow," repeated Stewart, and followed Fernande to the door.
As he passed out, he glanced behind him. The members of the staff were bending above those red-lined sheets, their faces shining with eagerness----
The officers in the outer room, catching sight of the red ribbon, saluted as he passed. The sentry in the hall came stiffly to attention.
But Stewart's heart was bitter. Honor! Glory! What were they worth to him alone and desolate----
"Monsieur!" It was Fernande's voice, low, vibrant with sympathy. "You will pardon me for what I am about to say--but I think I understand. It was not alone for France you did this thing--it was for that 'little comrade,' as you have called her, so brave, so loyal, so indomitable that my heart is at her feet. Is it not so?"
He came a step nearer and laid a tender hand on Stewart's arm.
"Do not despair, I beg of you, my friend. She is not dead--it is impossible that she should be dead! Fate could not be so cruel. With her you shared a few glorious days of peril, of trial, and of ecstasy--then you were whirled apart. But only for a time. Somewhere, sometime, you will find her again, awaiting you. I know it! I feel it!"
But it was no longer Fernande that Stewart heard--it was another voice, subtle, delicate, out of the unknown----
His bosom lifted with a deep, convulsive breath.
"You are right!" he whispered. "I, too, feel it!
Sometime--somewhere----"
And his trembling fingers sought that tress of lustrous hair, warm above his heart.
CHAPTER XVII
"LITTLE COMRADE"
In the first flush of the August dawn, Stewart opened his eyes and gazed vacantly about the room of the little inn to which he had been assigned.
Then memory returned, and he groaned and closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. But only for a moment. Perhaps there was some news--something he could do----
He started to spring out of bed, only to sink wearily back again. What was there he could possibly do? And news--news was to be dreaded rather than desired. So long as he did not know--well, he could still hope, and that was something! However faintly, however unreasonably, he could still hope!
So he lay back against his pillows and closed his eyes, and lived over again those shining days, those radiant hours. How happy he had been!
And that, too, was something. Whatever the future might bring, it could not rob him of the past. It could not rob him of those last delirious moments--her lips on his--her arms about him....
A tap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. News....
"Come in!" he shouted.
But it was only the landlady. She entered with smiling face, a can of steaming water in her hand.
"Good-morning, monsieur," she said. "I hope monsieur has slept well.