He sat still and let Henri stamp up and down, because, as has been said,

he knew the boy. And he had never been one to insist on deference,

which was why he got so much of it. But at last he got up and when

Henri stood still, rather ashamed of himself, he put an arm over the

boy's shoulders.

"I want you to do this thing, for me. And this thing only," he said.

"It is the work you do best. There are others who can fight, but--I do

not know any one else who can do as you have done."

Henri promised. He would have promised to go out and drown himself in

the sea, just beyond the wind-swept little garden, for the tall grave

man who stood before him. Then he bowed and went out, and the King

went back to his plain pine table and his work. That was the reason why

Sara Lee found him asleep on the floor by her kitchen stove that morning,

and went back to her cold bed to lie awake and think. But no explanation

came to her.

The arrival of Marie roused Henri. The worst of the bombardment was

over, but there was far-away desultory firing. He listened carefully

before, standing outside in the cold, he poured over his head and

shoulders a pail of cold water. He was drying himself vigorously when

he heard Sara Lee's voice in the kitchen.

The day began for Henri when first he saw the girl. It might be evening,

but it was the beginning for him. So he went in when he had finished

his toilet and bowed over her hand.

"You are cold, mademoiselle."

"I think I am nervous. There was an attack this morning."

"Yes?"

Marie had gone into the next room, and Sara Lee raised haggard eyes

to his.

"Henri," she said desperately--it was the first time she had called him

that--"I have something to say to you, and it's not very pleasant."

"You are going home?" It was the worst thing he could think of. But

she shook her head.

"You will think me most ungrateful and unkind."

"You? Kindness itself!"

"But this is different. It is not for myself. It is because I care a

great deal about--about--"

"Mademoiselle!"

"About your honor. And somehow this morning, when I found you here

asleep, and those poor fellows in the trenches fighting--"

Henri stared at her. So that was it! And he could never tell her. He

was sworn to secrecy by every tradition and instinct of his work. He

could never tell her, and she would go on thinking him a shirker and a

coward. She would be grateful. She would be sweetness itself. But

deep in her heart she would loathe him, as only women can hate for a

failing they never forgive.




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