CHAPTER XXXV

Mrs. Holland rallied from her swoon and Marya helped her to rise as Zonia shouted joyfully: “Come quick! He’s alive--he’s alive!”

Billy opened his eyes feebly and raised his hand to the ugly wound in his breast. Zonia caught it, bent and kissed him.

Mrs. Holland staggered to the group and knelt by their side.

“Oh--my boy--you’ll live--I feel it--I know it. God has heard my prayer--”

She paused and turned to Marya--

“Go, darling, quick--bring some water and tell Peter to come.”

Marya darted across the lawn, entered the house, summoned Peter and seized a glass of water.

In ten minutes the faithful old butler had carried Billy from the lawn and was leading the stricken group toward the road for New York.

Vassar’s trick succeeded. He reached his post without interference, thrust Virginia into the edge of the dense hedgerow and waited until the guards had returned to their places. Not a moment was to be lost.

He seized her hand and rushed down the street lit by the glare of burning houses.

“Play your part now!” he commanded. “It’s the only way and it’s safe. It’s the order of the night’s work.”

They pushed through mobs of panic-stricken fleeing refugees and groups of drunken soldiers revelling in every excess. Again and again they passed brutes with captive girls as their prey. Some had them tied with cords. Others relied on a blow from their fists to insure obedience.

They waved their congratulations to Vassar and his captive as they passed.

They reached the outskirts of the town without accident and ran into the stream of horror-stricken humanity that was pouring now toward New York.

A great murmur of mingled anguish, rage and despair rolled heavenward. It seemed a part of the leaping flames and red billowing smoke of the burning city behind them.

Lost children were crying for their parents and trudging hopelessly on with the crowd.

A farmer with a horrible wound across his forehead was pushing a wheelbarrow bearing his mangled child. Beside the body sat a little three-year-old girl clutching a blood-smeared doll.

A big automobile came shrieking through this crowd of misery. Beside the chauffeur sat an officer in glittering uniform, behind two soldiers, their bayonets flashing in the glare of the conflagration. In the rear seat alone, in magnificent uniform with gold epaulets and cords, sat the Governor-General of the fallen nation.

Waldron saw Virginia with a look of surprise and rage and lifted his hand. The car stopped instantly. The guard sprang out and opened the door of the tonneau.

“Quick!” Virginia whispered. “He has seen me. He will recognize you--run for your life!”

“I’ll not leave you to that beast’s mercy--”

“Run--run I tell you, if you love me!” she cried in agony. “I can take care of myself now. I’ll manage Waldron--and I know how to die!”

He gripped her hand fiercely.

With sudden resolution, she tore from his grasp and rushed to meet her rescuer.

Vassar no longer hesitated. She had made it impossible for him to linger a moment. He leaped the fence and disappeared in the shadows.

Waldron grasped Virginia’s hand in genuine surprise and distress.

“My dear Miss Holland,” he said with a touch of royal condescension, “what does this mean?”

“I was a prisoner,” she gasped.

“A prisoner?”

“The brute who ran had seized and dragged me from the lawn and through the streets.”

“I’m proud and happy in this chance to prove to you my devotion. You have treated me cruelly. I show you tonight my generosity.”

“Thank you,” she murmured gratefully.

With a lordly bow he handed her into the car and ordered his chauffeur to drive down the turnpike toward the Holland house.

The home was in flames. The Colonel had fired it in revenge for the death of his Lieutenant and sought new headquarters for the night.

Virginia found her mother, Zonia, Marya--with old Peter nearby holding Billy in his lap--standing in dazed horror watching the flames leap and roar and crackle.

Waldron helped the stricken mother and girl into his car.

Virginia lifted her white face.

“My father was shot--”

“Tonight?”

“Yes--”

Waldron turned sharply to a guard.

“Find his body. It can’t be far and bring it to New York for burial.”

“If you will permit me, Miss Holland,” Waldron said with a stately bow, “I will take you and your mother to your house on the Square. I fear it has been looted by the soldiery who got out of hand for a few hours. But you will be safe there from tonight. I will place a guard at your door. You are under my protection now--”

“Thank you! Thank you,” Virginia answered in low tones.

The Governor-General drove by the army headquarters, spoke for a moment to the Commander-in-chief, arranged the programme for the triumphal entry into the city, secured a cavalry escort and leisurely drove back into New York through miles of weary plodding, stunned and maimed refugees still fleeing before the savage sweep of the imperial army.

He placed Virginia and her mother in their wrecked home and stationed a guard at the door.

With lordly condescension he took her hand in parting:

“Please remember, Miss Holland, that I’m the most powerful man in America today. My word is law, and I am yours to command.”

“You are generous,” she answered softly.

He lifted his hand in protest, bowed and took his seat again in his automobile.

Virginia stood beside a broken window and watched the swiftly galloping horses of his escort sweep past the little park toward Broadway.

She walked with wide staring eyes through the litter of broken furniture, a dim resolution slowly shaping itself in her soul. It came in a moment’s inspiration--the way of deliverance at last. Her heart gave a cry of joy. The nails of her slender fingers cut the flesh as she gripped her hands in the fierce decision.

“I’ll do it--I’ll do it!” she breathed with uplifted head and chalk-white face.