Margaret Caruthers bent over the cowering figure with the sympathy which education provides when the heart fails to perform its office. There was, indeed, little tenderness in the hand which passed lightly over Christine Stafford's feverish forehead. "You give God credit for a good deal," she said indifferently. "If the light troubles you, shall I shut the door?" Christine sprang half upright. "No!" she cried sharply. "No! I should still see it. Even when I cover my face--so--I can still see it flickering. And then there is the darkness, and in the darkness, faces--little John's face. Oh, my little fellow, what will become of you!" She began to cry softly, but no longer with fear. Love and pity had struggled up out of the chaos of her despair, rising above even the mighty instinct of self-preservation. Margaret's hand ceased from its mechanical act of consolation. "Be thankful that he is not here," she said. "I am thankful--but the thought of him makes death harder. It will hurt him so." "No one is indispensable in this world." Christine turned her haggard, tear-stained face to the moonlight. "How hard you are!" she said wonderingly. "You, too, have your little girl to think of, but even with the end so close--even knowing that we shall never see our loved ones again--you are still hard." "I have no loved ones, and life has taught me to be hard. Why should death soften me?" was the cold answer. Both women relapsed into silence. Always strangers to each other, a common danger had not served to break down the barrier between them. Christine now lay quiet and calm, her hands clasped, her lips moving slightly, as though in prayer. Her companion had resumed her former position against the wall, her eyes fixed on the open doorway, beyond which the grey lake of moonlight spread itself into the shadow of the walls. In the distance a single point of fire flickered uneasily, winking like an evil, threatening eye. So long as it winked at them, so long their lives were safe. With its extermination they knew must come their own. Hitherto, save for the murmur of the two voices, a profound hush had weighed ominously in the heavy air. Now suddenly a cry went up, pitched on a high note and descending by semitones, like a dying wind, into a moan. It was caught up instantly and repeated so close that it seemed to the two women to have sprung from the very ground beneath their feet. Christine started up.