So he had told her--quickly--in his exquisitely careful English, and she had listened as attentively and politely, huddled up on the brick steps in the sunlight, as though he were running over the details of the last drive, instead of tearing her life to pieces with every word. She remembered now that it hadn't seemed real at all--if it had been to Jerry that these horrors had happened could she have sat there so quietly, feeling the colour bright in her cheeks, and the wind stirring in her hair, and the sunlight warm on her hands? Why, for less than this people screamed, and fainted, and went raving mad! "You say--that his back is broken?" "But yes, my dear," Liane's Philippe had told her, and she had seen the tears shining in his gray eyes. "And he is badly burned?" "My brave Janie, these questions are not good to ask--not good, not good to answer. This I will tell you. He lives, our Jerry--and so dearly does he love you that he will drag back that poor body from hell itself--because it is yours, not his. This he has sent me to 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 be content.' For that one word, Janie, I have come many miles. What shall it be?"