Sara Lee wore the letter next her heart, but it did not warm her. She
went through the next few hours in a sort of frozen composure and ate
nothing at all.
Then came the bombardment.
Henri and Jean, driving out from Dunkirk, had passed on the road
ammunition trains, waiting in the road until dark before moving on to
the Front. Henri had given Sara Lee her letter, had watched jealously
for its effect on her, and then, his own face white and set, had gone on
down the ruined street.
Here within the walls of a destroyed house he disappeared. The place
was evidently familiar to him, for he moved without hesitation. Broken
furniture still stood in the roofless rooms, and in front of a battered
bureau Henri paused. Still whistling under his breath, he took off his
uniform and donned a strange one, of greenish gray. In the pocket of
the blouse he stuffed a soft round cap of the same color. Then, resuming
his cape and Belgian cap, with its tassel over his forehead, he went out
into the street again. He carried in his belt a pistol, but it was not
the one he had brought in with him. As a matter of fact, by the addition
of the cap in his pocket, Henri was at that moment in the full uniform of
a _lieutenant_ of a Bavarian infantry regiment, pistol and all.
He went down the street and along the road toward the poplars. He met
the first detachment of men out of the trenches just beyond the trees,
and stepped aside into the mud to let them pass, calling a greeting to
them out of the darkness.
"_Bonsoir_!" they replied, and saluted stiffly. There were few among them
who did not know his voice, and fewer still who did not suspect his
business.
"A brave man," they said among themselves as they went on.
"How long will he last?" asked one young soldier, a boy in his teens.
"One cannot live long who does as he does," replied a gaunt and bearded
man. "But it is a fine life while it continues. A fine life!"
The boy stepped out of the shuffling line and looked behind him. He
could see only the glow of Henri's eternal cigarette. "I should like to
go with him," he muttered wistfully.
The ammunition train was in the village now. It kept the center of the
road, lest it should slide into the mud on either side and be mired.
The men moved out of its way into the ditch, grumbling.
Henri went whistling softly down the road.
The first shell fell in the neglected square. The second struck the
rear wagons of the ammunition train. Henri heard the terrific explosion
that followed, and turning ran madly back into the village. More shells
fell into the road. The men scattered like partridges, running for the
fields, but the drivers of the ammunition wagons beat their horses and
came lurching and shouting down the road.
There was cold terror in Henri's heart. He ran madly, throwing aside
his cape as he went. More shells fell ahead in the street. Once in the
darkness he fell flat over the body of a horse. There was a steady
groaning from the ditch near by. But he got up and ran on, a strange
figure with his flying hair and his German uniform.
He was all but stabbed by René when he entered the little house.
"Mademoiselle?" Henri gasped, holding René's bayonet away from his
heaving chest.
"I am here," said Sara Lee's voice from the little _salle à manger_.
"Let them carry in the wounded. I am getting ready hot water and
bandages. There is not much space, for the corner of the room has been
shot away."
She was as dead white in the candlelight, but very calm.
"You cannot stay here," Henri panted. "At any time--"
Another shell fell, followed by the rumble of falling walls.
"Some one must stay," said Sara Lee. "There must be wounded in the
streets. Marie is in the cellar."
Henri pleaded passionately with her to go to the cellar, but she refused.
He would have gathered her up in his arms and carried her there, but
Jean came in, leading a wounded man, and Henri gave up in despair.
All that night they worked, a ghastly business. More than one man died
that night in the little house, while a blond young man in a German
uniform gave him a last mouthful of water or took down those pitifully
vague addresses which were all the dying Belgians had to give.
"I have not heard--last at Aarschot, but now--God knows where."
No more shells fell. At dawn, with all done that could be done, Sara
Lee fainted quietly in the hallway. Henri carried her in and placed
her on her bed. A corner of the room was indeed gone. The mantel was
shattered and the little stove. But on the floor lay Harvey's photograph
uninjured. Henri lifted it and looked at it. Then he placed it on the
table, and very reverently he kissed the palm of Sara Lee's quiet hand.
Daylight found the street pitiful indeed. Henri, whose costume René had
been casting wondering glances at all night, sent a request for men from
the trenches to clear away the bodies of the horses and bury them, and
somewhat later over a single grave in the fields there was a simple
ceremony of burial for the men who had fallen. Henri had changed again
by that time, but he sternly forbade Sara Lee to attend.
"On pain," he said, "of no more supplies, mademoiselle. These things
must be. They are war. But you can do nothing to help, and it will
be very sad."
Ambulances took away the wounded at dawn, and the little house became
quiet once more. With planks René repaired the damage to the corner,
and triumphantly produced and set up another stove. He even put up a
mantelshelf, and on it, smiling somewhat, he placed Harvey's picture.
Sara Lee saw it there, and a tiny seed of resentment took root and grew.
"If there had been no one here last night," she said to the photograph,
"many more would have died. How can you say I am cruel to you? Isn't
this worth the doing?"
But Harvey remained impassive, detached, his eyes on the photographer's
white muslin screen. And the angle of his jaw was set and dogged.
[Illustration: Henri explained the method.]