The Girl from Alsace Part 37

"Who are you?" he asked in French. "From where do you come?"

"We are friends," said the girl. "We have fled from Germany. We have both been wounded."

"Yes," said Stewart, and showed his blood-stained s.h.i.+rt. "Mine is only a scratch, but my comrade needs attention."

A sudden shout from the top of the barricade told that the Uhlans were re-forming.

"You must look out for yourselves," said the officer. "I will hear your story later," and he bounded back to his place beside his men.

The soldier who was carrying the girl dropped her abruptly into Stewart's arms and followed his captain. In an instant the firing recommenced.

Stewart looked wildly about him. He was in a village street, with close-built houses on either side.

"I must find a wagon," he gasped, "or something----"

His breath failed him, but he staggered on. The mist was before his eyes again, his tongue seemed dry and swollen.

Suddenly the arm about his neck relaxed, the head fell back----

He cast one haggard glance down into the white face, then turned through the nearest doorway.

Perhaps she was wounded more seriously than he had thought--perhaps she had not told him. He must see--he must make sure----

He found himself in a tiled pa.s.sage, opening into a low-ceilinged room lighted by a single window. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, he stared blindly; then he saw a low settle against the farther wall, and upon this he gently laid his burden.

Before he could catch himself, he had fallen heavily to the floor, and lay there for a moment, too weak to rise. But the weakness pa.s.sed. With set teeth, he pulled himself to his knees, got out his knife, found, with his fingers, the stain of blood above the wound in the leg, and quickly ripped away the cloth.

The bullet had pa.s.sed through the thickness of the thigh, leaving a tiny puncture. With a sob of thankfulness, he realized that the wound was not dangerous. Blood was still oozing slowly from it--it must be washed and dressed.

He found a pail of water in the kitchen, s.n.a.t.c.hed a sheet from a bed in another room, and set to work. The familiar labor steadied him, the mists cleared, his muscles again obeyed his will, the sense of exhaustion pa.s.sed.

"It is only a scratch!" whispered a voice, and he turned sharply to find her smiling up at him. "It is just a scratch like yours!"

"It is much more than a scratch!" he said, sternly. "You must lie still, or you will start the bleeding."

"Tyrant!" she retorted, and then she raised her head and looked to see what he was doing. "Oh! is it there?" she said, in surprise. "I didn't feel it there!"

"Where did you feel it?" Stewart demanded. "Not in the body? Tell me the truth!"

"It seemed to me to be somewhere below the knee. But how savage you are!"

"I'm savage because you are hurt. I can't stand it to see you suffer!"

and with lips compressed, he bandaged the wound with some strips torn from the sheet. Then he ran his fingers down over the calf, and brought them away stained with blood. He caught up his knife and ripped the cloth clear down.

"Really," she protested, "I shall not have any clothing left, if you keep on like that! I do not see how I am going to appear in public as it is!"

He grimly washed the blood away without replying. On either side of the calf, he found a tiny black spot where the second bullet had pa.s.sed through.

"These German bullets seem to be about the size of peas," he remarked, as he bandaged the leg; then he raised his head and listened, as the firing outside rose to a furious crescendo. "They're at it again!" he added. "We must be getting out of this!"

She reached up, caught him by the coat, and drew him down to her.

"Listen," she said. "The letters are in your pocket. Should we be separated----"

"We will not be separated," he broke in, impatiently. "Do you suppose I would permit anything to separate us now?"

"I know, dear one," she said, softly. "But if we should be, you will carry the letters to General Joffre? Oh, do not hesitate!" she cried.

"Promise me! They mean so much to me--my life's work--all my ambitions--all my hopes----"

"Very well," he said. "I promise."

"You have not forgotten the sign and the formula?"

"No."

She pa.s.sed an arm about his neck and drew him still closer.

"Kiss me!" she whispered.

And Stewart, shaken, transported, deliriously happy, pressed his lips to hers in a long, close, pa.s.sionate embrace.

At last she drew her arm away.

"I am very tired," she whispered, smiling dreamily up at him; "and very, very happy. I do not believe I can go on, dear one."

"I will get a wagon of some kind--a hand-cart, if nothing better. There must be ambulances somewhere about----"

He paused, listening, for the firing at the barricade had started furiously again.

"I will be back in a moment," he said, and ran to the street door and looked out. As he did so, a wounded soldier hobbled past, using his rifle as a crutch.

"How goes it?" Stewart inquired, in French.

"We hold them off," answered the soldier, smiling cheerfully, though his face was drawn with pain.

"Will they break through?"

"No. Our reenforcements are coming up," and the little soldier hobbled away down the street.

"I should have asked him where the ambulances are," thought Stewart. He glanced again toward the barricade. The firing had slackened; evidently the a.s.sailants had again been repulsed. Yes, there was time, and he darted down the street after the limping soldier. He was at his side in a moment. "Where are the ambulances?" he asked.

The soldier, turning to reply, glanced back along the street and his face went livid.

"Ah, good G.o.d!" he groaned. "Look yonder!"

And, looking, Stewart beheld a gray-green flood pouring over the barricade, beheld the flash of reddened bayonets, beheld the little band of Belgians swept backward.

With a cry of anguish, he sprang back along the street, but in an instant the tide was upon him. He fought against it furiously, striking, cursing, praying----