out of her
own.

For Bertrand's sleep was very easy, serenely natural. It seemed to Chris
that the man's vanished youth had come back to beautify his rest. For all
the weariness she had grown accustomed to see had passed away. She even
thought he smiled.

Back on a rush of memory came his words: "I know that all Love is
eternal, and Death is only an incident in eternity."

Till that moment they had never recurred to her. From that moment she
carried them perpetually in her heart.

She drew a little nearer. She bent above him. And it was to her as if the
dead lips spoke: "Though I shall not be with you, you will know that I am
loving you still. It will be as an Altar Flame that burns for ever.
Believe me, Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love."

"I know it, I know it," whispered Chris.

When she stood up again, though her eyes were shining through tears, she
was smiling also.

"Your friend and mine, Trevor," she murmured. "May I--may I kiss him just
once? I never have before."

"Of course you may," he said.

She bent again, bent till her lips just touched the dead man's brow.

"I won't disturb you, _preux chevalier_," she whispered. "Only
good-night, dear! Good-night!"

For a little while she stood looking down upon the dead man's rest; but
at length she turned away, drawing her husband with her, and went to the
open window.

Hand in hand they looked out upon a world in which "all things were made
new." They spoke no word. They thought the same thoughts together, and no
words were needed.

Only when they turned at length from the shimmering sunlight back into
the quiet room, their eyes met. And in the silence Trevor Mordaunt bent
with reverence and kissed the living, as she had kissed the dead.

CHAPTER XII

THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! The procession was passing under the windows.

Bertrand de Montville, the vindicated hero, was being borne to his
soldier's grave on the hill by the fortress. Soldiers preceded him.
Soldiers followed him. A mixed crowd of journalists--men from all parts
of Europe--came after. And from the window above, his little pal looked
down.

Max Wyndham stood beside her, the corners of his mouth drawn down and a
very peculiar expression in his green eyes. He had amazed his French
friend by refusing to follow the _cortege_. Even Chris did not know why,
for he had clothed himself in an impenetrable cloak of reserve s