the
banks of the Lisse from the Chateau de Nesville to Morteyn. The
French infantry had been pouring into Morteyn since late
afternoon; they had entered the park when he entered, driving his
tumbril with its blood-stained burden; they had turned the river
into a moat, the meadow into an earthwork, the Chateau itself
into a fortress.

On the concrete terrace beside him a gatling-gun glimmered in the
starlight; sentinels leaned on their elbows, sprawling across the
parapets; shadowy ranks of sleeping men lay among the shrubbery
below, white-faced, exhausted, motionless.

There were low voices from the darkened ballroom, the stir and
tinkle of spurred boots, the ring of sabres. Out in the hard
macadamized road, cannon were passing into the park by the iron
gate; beyond the road masses of men moved in the starlight.

After a moment Jack turned away and entered the house. For the
hundredth time he mounted the stairs to Lorraine's bedroom door
and listened, holding his breath. He heard nothing--not a
cry--not a sob. It had been so from the first, when he had told
her that her father lay dead somewhere in the forest of Morteyn.

She had said nothing--she went to her room and sat down on the
bed, white and still. Sir Thorald lay in the next room, breathing
deeply. Alixe was kneeling beside him, crying silently.

Twice a surgeon from an infantry regiment had come and gone away
after a glance at Sir Thorald. A captain came later and asked for
a Sister of Mercy.

"She can't go," said Jack, in a low voice. But little Alixe rose,
still crying, and followed the captain to the stables, where a
dozen mangled soldiers lay in the straw and hay.

It was midnight when she returned to find Jack standing beside
Sir Thorald in the dark. When he saw it was Alixe he led her
gently into the hall.

"He is conscious now; I will call you when the time comes. Go
into that room--Lorraine is there, alone. Ah, go, Alixe; it is
charity!--and you wear the white cross--"

"It is dyed scarlet," she whispered through her tears.

He returned to Sir Thorald, who lay moving his restless hands
over the sheets and turning his head constantly from side to
side.

"Go on," said Jack; "finish what you were saying."

"Will she come?"

"Yes--in time."

Sir Thorald relapsed into a rambling, monotonous account of some
military movement near Wissembourg until Jack spoke again:

"Yes--I know; tell me about Alixe."

"Yes--Alixe," muttered Sir Thoral