tell you, most lucky lady ever loved."

"You mean--that he isn't going to die?"

"I tell you that into those small hands of yours he has given his
life. Hold it fast."

"Will he--will he get well?" "He will not walk again; but have you
not swift feet to run for him?"

And there had come to her, sitting on the terrace in the sunshine,
an overwhelming flood of joy, reckless and cruel and triumphant. Now
he was hers forever, the restless wanderer--delivered to her bound
and helpless, never to stray again. Hers to worship and serve and
slave for, his troth to Freedom broken--hers at last!

"I'm coming," she had told the tall young Frenchman breathlessly.
"Take me to him--please let's hurry."

"_Ma pauvre petite_, this is war. One does not come and go at will.
God knows by what miracle enough red tape unwound to let me through
to you, to bring my message and to take one back."

"What message, Philippe?"

"That is for you to say, little Janie. He told me, 'Say to her that
she has my heart--if she needs my body, I will live. Say to her that
it is an ugly, broken, and useless thing; still, hers. She must use
it as she sees fit. Say to her--no, say nothing more. She is my Janie,
and has no need of words. Tell her to send me only one, and I will