ur," gasped Lorraine, "France is not conquered! That flag
is the flag of dishonour!"

They stared at each other in silence, then the officer stepped to
the flag-pole and picked up the ropes.

"Not that!--not that!" cried Lorraine, shuddering.

"It is the Emperor's orders."

The officer drew the rope tight--the white flag crawled slowly up
the staff, fluttered, and stopped.

Lorraine covered her eyes with her hands; the roar of the crowd
below was in her ears.

"O God!--O God!" she whispered.

"Lorraine!" whispered Jack, both arms around her.

Her head fell forward on her breast.

Overhead the white flag caught the breeze again, and floated out
over the ramparts of Sedan.

"By the Emperor's orders," said the officer, coming close to
Jack.

Then for the first time Jack saw that it was Georges Carriere who
stood there, ghastly pale, his eyes fixed on Lorraine.

"She has fainted," muttered Jack, lifting her. "Georges, is it
all over?"

"Yes," said Georges, and he walked over to the flag-pole, and
stood there looking up at the white badge of dishonour.

XXX

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

Daylight was fading in the room where Lorraine lay in a stupor so
deep that at moments the Sister of Mercy and the young military
surgeon could scarcely believe her alive there on the pillows.

Jack, his head on his arms, stood by the window, staring out
vacantly at the streak of light in the west, against which, on
the straight, gray ramparts, the white flag flapped black against
the dying sun.

Under the window, in the muddy, black streets, the packed throngs
swayed and staggered and trampled through the filth, amid a crush
of camp-wagons, artillery, ambulances, and crowding squadrons of
cavalry. Riotous line soldiers cried out "Treason!" and hissed
their generals or cursed their Emperor; the tall cuirassiers
surged by in silence, sombre faces turned towards the west, where
the white flag flew on the ramparts. Heavier, denser, more
suffocating grew the crush; an ambulance broke down, a caisson
smashed into a lamp-post, a cuirassier's horse slipped in the
greasy depths of the filth, pitching its steel-clad rider to the
pavement. Through the Place d'Alsace-Lorraine, through the Avenue
du College and the Place d'Armes, passed the turbulent torrent of
men and horses and cannon. The Grande Rue was choked from the
church to the bronze statue in the Place Turenne; the Porte de
Paris was piled with dead, the Porte de