"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 passed, 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.