The opening and shutting of a door told him that she was gone, and he was left in company with his shame. CHAPTER XII THE WINNING HAND Until far into the night the air reverberated with incessant cannonade--from the direction of Genappe and from that of Wavre--but just before dawn all was still. The stream of convoys which bore the wounded along the road to Brussels from Mont Saint Jean and Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte had momentarily ceased its endless course. The sky had that perfect serenity of a midsummer's night, starlit and azure with the honey-coloured moon sinking slowly down towards the west. Here at the edge of the wood the air had a sweet smell of wet earth and damp moss and freshly cut hay: it had all the delicious softness of a loved one's embrace. Through the roar of distant cannonade, Bobby had slept. For a time after St. Genis left him he had watched the long straight road with dull, unseeing eyes--he had seen the first convoy, overfilled with wounded men lying huddled on heaped-up straw, and had thanked God that he was lying on this exquisitely soft carpet made of thousands of tiny green plants--moss, grass, weeds, young tendrils and growing buds and opening leaves that were delicious to the touch. He had quite forgotten that he was wounded--neither his head nor his leg nor his arm seemed to hurt him now: and he was able to think in peace of Crystal and of her happiness. St. Genis would have come to her by then: she would be happy to see him safe and well, and perhaps--in the midst of her joy--she would think of the friend who so gladly offered up his life for her. When the air around was no longer shaken by constant repercussion, Bobby fell asleep. It was not yet dawn, even though far away in the east there was a luminous veil that made the sky look like living silver. Behind him among the trees there was a moving and a fluttering--the birds were no longer asleep--they had not begun to sing but they were shaking out their feathers and opening tiny, round eyes in farewell to departing night. That gentle fluttering was a sweet lullaby, and Bobby slept and dreamed--he dreamed that the fluttering became louder and louder, and that, instead of birds, it was a group of angels that shook their wings and stood around him as he slept. One of the angels came nearer and laid a hand upon his head--and Bobby dreamed that the angel spoke and the words that it said filled Bobby's heart with unearthly happiness. "My love! my love!" the angel said, "will you try and live for my sake?" And Bobby would not open his eyes, for fear the angel should go away. And though he knew exactly where he was, and could feel the soft carpet of leaves, and smell the sweet moisture in the air, he knew that he must still be dreaming, for angels are not of this earth.