"Until to-morrow," repeated Stewart, and followed Fernande to the door. As he passed out, he glanced behind him. The members of the staff were bending above those red-lined sheets, their faces shining with eagerness---- The officers in the outer room, catching sight of the red ribbon, saluted as he passed. The sentry in the hall came stiffly to attention. But Stewart's heart was bitter. Honor! Glory! What were they worth to him alone and desolate---- "Monsieur!" It was Fernande's voice, low, vibrant with sympathy. "You will pardon me for what I am about to say--but I think I understand. It was not alone for France you did this thing--it was for that 'little comrade,' as you have called her, so brave, so loyal, so indomitable that my heart is at her feet. Is it not so?" He came a step nearer and laid a tender hand on Stewart's arm. "Do not despair, I beg of you, my friend. She is not dead--it is impossible that she should be dead! Fate could not be so cruel. With her you shared a few glorious days of peril, of trial, and of ecstasy--then you were whirled apart. But only for a time. Somewhere, sometime, you will find her again, awaiting you. I know it! I feel it!" But it was no longer Fernande that Stewart heard--it was another voice, subtle, delicate, out of the unknown---- His bosom lifted with a deep, convulsive breath. "You are right!" he whispered. "I, too, feel it! Sometime--somewhere----" And his trembling fingers sought that tress of lustrous hair, warm above his heart. CHAPTER XVII "LITTLE COMRADE" In the first flush of the August dawn, Stewart opened his eyes and gazed vacantly about the room of the little inn to which he had been assigned. Then memory returned, and he groaned and closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. But only for a moment. Perhaps there was some news--something he could do---- He started to spring out of bed, only to sink wearily back again. What was there he could possibly do? And news--news was to be dreaded rather than desired. So long as he did not know--well, he could still hope, and that was something! However faintly, however unreasonably, he could still hope! So he lay back against his pillows and closed his eyes, and lived over again those shining days, those radiant hours. How happy he had been! And that, too, was something. Whatever the future might bring, it could not rob him of the past. It could not rob him of those last delirious moments--her lips on his--her arms about him.... A tap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. News.... "Come in!" he shouted. But it was only the landlady. She entered with smiling face, a can of steaming water in her hand. "Good-morning, monsieur," she said. "I hope monsieur has slept well. Will monsieur have his coffee before rising?" "No, no," said Stewart. "I will come down." "Very well, monsieur," and she placed the can upon the wash-stand and closed the door.