her head
rested against his shoulder.

Franz Lippheim looked down at her with an infinite compassion and
gentleness. "It will all be well, my Karen; do not fear," he said. "The
train does not go from Falmouth for three hours still. We will take it
then and go to Southampton and sail for Germany to-night. And for now,
you will drink this milk--so, yes; that is well;--and eat this
chocolate;--you cannot; it will be for later then. And you will lie
still with my cloak around you, so; and you will sleep. And I will sit
beside you and you will have no troubled thoughts. You are with your
friends, my Karen." While he spoke he had wrapped her round and laid her
head softly on a folded garment that he drew from his knapsack; and in a
few moments he saw that she slept, the profound sleep of complete
exhaustion.

Franz Lippheim sat above her, not daring to light his pipe for fear of
waking her. He, watched the glory of the sunrise. It was perhaps the
most wonderful hour in Franz's life.

Phrases of splendid music passed through his mind, mingling with the
sound of the sea. No personal pain and no personal hope was in his
heart. He was uplifted, translated, with the beauty of the hour and its
significance.

Karen needed him. Karen was to come to them. He was to see her
henceforward in his life. He was to guard and help her. He was her
friend. The splendour and the peace of the golden sky and golden sea
were the angels of a great initiation. Nothing could henceforth be as it
had been. His brain stirred with exquisite intuitions, finding form for
them in the loved music that, henceforth, he would play as he had never
before played it. And when he looked from the sea and sky down at the
sleeping face beside him, wasted and drawn and piteous in its repose,
large tears rose in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks, and the sadness
was more beautiful than any joy that he had known.

What she had suffered!--the dear one. What they must help her to forget!
To her, also, the hour would send it angels: she would wake to a new
life.

He turned his eyes again to the rising sun, and his heart silently
chanted its love and pride and sadness in the phrases of Beethoven, of
Schubert and of Brahms, and from time to time, softly, he muttered to
himself, this stout young German Jew with the red neck-tie and the
strange round hat: "_Suesses Kind! Unglueckliches Kind! Oh--der schoene
Tag!_"

CHAPTER XLII

Madame Von Marwitz looked o