The Girl from Alsace Part 39

"So bad as that!" said the officer, sympathetically, struck by the whiteness of his face. "And I have nothing to give you--not a swallow of wine--not a sip!"

"It will pa.s.s," said Stewart, hoa.r.s.ely. "I shall be all right presently.

But I do not understand French very well. Do you speak English?"

"A lit-tle," answered the other, and spoke thereafter in a mixture of French and English, which Stewart found intelligible, but which need not be indicated here.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Stewart asked, at last.

"Ah, we drove them out!" cried the captain, his face gleaming. "My men behaved splendidly--they are brave boys, as you yourself saw. We made it--how you say?--too hot for the Germans; but we could not remain. They were pushing up in force on every side, and they had set fire to the place. So we took up our wounded and fell back. At the last moment, I happen to remember that I had seen you dodging along the street in face of the German fire, so I look for you in this house and in that. At last I find you in a room full of smoke, lying across a bench, and I bring you away. Now we wait for another attack. It will come soon--our scouts have seen the Germans preparing to advance. Then we fight as long as we can and kill as many as we can, and then give back to a new position.

That, over and over again, will be our part in this war--to hold them until France has time to strike. But I pity my poor country," and his face grew dark. "There will be little left of her when those barbarians have finished. They are astounded that we fight, that we dare oppose them; they are maddened that we hold them back, for time means everything to them. They revenge themselves by burning our villages and killing defenseless people. Ah, well, they shall pay! Tell me, my friend," he added, in another tone, "why did you risk death in that reckless fashion? Why did you kneel beside that bench?"

"It was there I left my comrade," Stewart answered, brokenly, his face convulsed. "She was wounded--she could not walk--I was too exhausted to carry her--I went to look for a cart--for an ambulance--I had scarcely taken a step, when the Germans swept over the barricade and into the town. When I got back to the house where I had left her, she was not there."

"Ah," said the other, looking down at Stewart, thoughtfully. "It was a woman, then?"

"Yes."

"Your wife?"

"She had promised to become my wife," and Stewart looked at the other, steadily.

"You are an American, are you not?"

"Yes--I have my pa.s.sport."

"And Madame--was she also an American?"

"No--she was a Frenchwoman. She was shot twice in the leg as we ran toward your barricade--seriously--it was quite impossible for her to walk. But when I got back to the house, she was not there. What had happened to her?"

His companion gazed out over the meadows and shook his head.

"You looked in the other rooms?" he asked.

"Everywhere--all through the house--she was not there! Ah, and I remember now," he added, struggling to a sitting posture, his face more livid, if possible, than it had been before. "There was a great bloodstain on the floor that was not there when I left her. How could it have got there? I cannot understand!"

Again the officer shook his head, his eyes still on the billowing smoke.

"It is very strange," he murmured.

"I must go back!" cried Stewart. "I must search for her!" and he tried to rise.

The other put out a hand to stop him, but drew it back, seeing it unnecessary.

"Impossible!" he said. "You see, you cannot even stand!"

"I have had nothing to eat since yesterday," Stewart explained. "Then only some eggs and apples. If I could get some food----"

He broke off, his chin quivering helplessly, as he realized his weakness. He was very near to tears.

"Even if you could walk," the other pointed out, "even if you were quite strong, it would still be impossible. The Germans have burned the village; they are now on this side of it. If Madame is still alive, she is safe. Barbarians as they are, they would not kill a wounded woman!"

"Oh, you don't know!" groaned Stewart. "You don't know! They would kill her without compunction!" and weakness and hunger and despair were too much for him. He threw himself forward on his face, shaken by great sobs.

The little officer sat quite still, his face very sad. There was no glory about war--that was merely a fiction to hold soldiers to their work; it was all horrible, detestable, inhuman. He had seen brave men killed, torn, mutilated; he had seen inoffensive people driven from their homes and left to starve; he had seen women weeping for their husbands and children for their fathers; he had seen terror stalk across the quiet countryside--famine, want, despair----

The paroxysm pa.s.sed, and Stewart gradually regained his self-control.

"You will, of course, do as you think best," said his companion, at last; "but I could perhaps be of help if I knew more. How do you come to be in these rags? Why was Madame dressed as a man? Why should the Germans kill her? These are things that I should like to know--but you will tell me as much or as little as you please."

Before he was well aware of it, so hungry was he for comfort, Stewart found himself embarked upon the story. It flowed from his lips so rapidly, so brokenly, as poignant memory stabbed through him, that more than once his listener stopped him and asked him to repeat. For the rest, he sat staring out at the burning village, his eyes bright, his hands clenched.

And when the story was over, he arose, faced the east, and saluted stiffly.

"_Madame!_" he said--and so paid her the highest tribute in a soldier's power.

Then he sat down again, and there was a moment's silence.

"What you have told me," he said, slowly, at last, "moves me beyond words! Believe me, I would advance this instant, I would risk my whole command, if I thought there was the slightest chance of rescuing that intrepid and glorious woman. But there is no chance. That village is held by at least a regiment."

"What could have happened?" asked Stewart, again. "Where could she have gone?"

"I cannot imagine. I can only hope that she is safe. Most probably she has been taken prisoner. Even in that case, there is little danger that she will ever be recognized."

"But why should they take prisoner a wounded civilian?" Stewart persisted. "I cannot understand it--unless----"

His voice died in his throat.

"Unless what?" asked the officer, turning on him quickly. "What is it you fear?"

"Unless she _was_ recognized!" cried Stewart, hoa.r.s.ely.

But the other shook his head.

"If she had been recognized--which is most improbable--she would not have been taken prisoner at all. She would have been shot where she lay."

And then again that dark stain upon the floor flashed before Stewart's eyes. Perhaps that had really happened. Perhaps that blood was hers!

"It is the suspense!" he groaned. "The d.a.m.nable suspense!"

"I know," said the other, gently. "It is always the missing who cause the deepest anguish. One can only wait and hope and pray! That is all that you can do--that and one other thing."

"What other thing?" Stewart demanded.

"She intrusted you with a mission, did she not?" asked the little captain, gently. "Living or dead, she would be glad to know that you fulfilled it, for it was very dear to her. You still have the letters?"

Stewart thrust his hand into his pocket and brought them forth.

"You are right," he said, and rose unsteadily. "Where will I find General Joffre?"