what he had
done.

That night, lying in the new bed, she faced that situation too. How
much was she to blame? If Henri felt that each life lost was lost by
him wasn't the same true for her? Why had she allowed him to stay in
London?

But that was one question she did not answer frankly.

She lay there in the darkness and wondered what punishment he would
receive. He had done so much for them over there. Surely, surely, they
would allow for that. But small things came back to her--the awful
sight of the miller and his son, led away to death, with the sacks over
their heads. The relentlessness of it all, the expecting that men
should give everything, even life itself, and ask for no mercy.

And this, too, she remembered: Once in a wild moment Henri had said he
would follow her to America, and that there he would prove to her that
his and not Harvey's was the real love of her life--the great love,
that comes but once to any woman, and to some not at all. Yet on that
last night at Morley's he had said what she now felt was a final
farewell. That last look of his, from the doorway--that had been the
look of a man who would fill his eyes for the last time.

She got up and stood by the window. What had they done to him? What
would they do? She looked at her watch. It was four o'clock in the
morning over there. The little house would be quiet now, but down along
the lines men would be standing on the firing step of the trench, and
waiting, against what the dawn might bring.

Through the thin wall came the sound of Harvey's heavy, regular
breathing. She remembered Henri's light sleeping on the kitchen floor,
his cap on the table, his cape rolled round him--a sleeping, for all
his weariness, so light that he seemed always half conscious. She
remembered the innumerable times he had come in at this hour, muddy,
sometimes rather gray of face with fatigue, but always cheerful.

It was just such an hour that she found him giving hot coffee to the
German prisoner. It had been but a little earlier when he had taken her
to the roof and had there shown her Rene, lying with his face up toward
the sky which had sent him death.

A hundred memories crowded--Henri's love for the Belgian soldiers, and
theirs for him; his humor; his absurd riddles. There was the one he had
asked Rene, the very day before the air attack. He had stood stiffly and
frowningly before the boy, and he had asked in a highly official tone:

"What must a man be