CHAPTER XVII

"LITTLE COMRADE"

In the first flush of the August dawn, Stewart opened his eyes and gazed vacantly about the room of the little inn to which he had been assigned. Then memory returned, and he groaned and closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. But only for a moment. Perhaps there was some news--something he could do----

He started to spring out of bed, only to sink wearily back again. What was there he could possibly do? And news--news was to be dreaded rather than desired. So long as he did not know--well, he could still hope, and that was something! However faintly, however unreasonably, he could still hope!

So he lay back against his pillows and closed his eyes, and lived over again those shining days, those radiant hours. How happy he had been! And that, too, was something. Whatever the future might bring, it could not rob him of the past. It could not rob him of those last delirious moments--her lips on his--her arms about him....

A tap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. News....

"Come in!" he shouted.

But it was only the landlady. She entered with smiling face, a can of steaming water in her hand.

"Good-morning, monsieur," she said. "I hope monsieur has slept well. Will monsieur have his coffee before rising?"

"No, no," said Stewart. "I will come down."

"Very well, monsieur," and she placed the can upon the wash-stand and closed the door.

If it were not that the movements of the toilet are largely automatic, Stewart would never have finished his, but he was washed and dressed at last, and descended to the café which served also as the dining-room. It was crowded to the doors with vociferous French soldiers, very weary and very dirty, and all clamoring to be served at once. Their claims were greater than his, Stewart thought, and after all it wouldn't harm him to go breakfastless; but just then the landlady appeared again, and drew him through a door opening behind the bar.

"This way, monsieur," she said. "I have a little table for you here in the court."

A spasm of memory clutched Stewart's heart as he saw the snowy table set in a shady corner, and he drank his coffee and ate his rolls and honey like a man in a dream.

"Monsieur Stewart?" asked a voice.

He looked up to find a French officer standing at his elbow.

"Yes," he said. "Pardon me; I did not see you."

"Monsieur was distrait," said the other, with a smile. "I have a message," and he held out a large, square envelope.

With a hand whose trembling he could not control, Stewart tore open the envelope and unfolded the note within. It was very brief:

Dear Monsieur Stewart:

There is a distressing lack of surgeons at the Belgian front, and we are sending all that we can. I remember your generous offer of your services, and if I may command them I trust that you will join the party which is leaving at once.

Faithfully yours,

Fernande.

No news, then! But here was something he could do--wounds to dress--suffering to relieve.

"I am ready," he said, and rapped for his bill.

Half an hour later he was speeding northward again along the valley of the Meuse toward Namur, in company with two other surgeons, Frenchmen, who seemed very thoughtful and depressed. Stewart, who had expected to find the roads crowded with _matériel_ and troop-train after troop-train rolling northward to the aid of struggling Belgium, was astonished to perceive no evidences of war whatever--just the same peaceful countryside he had passed through the day before. Something had gone wrong, then; and he turned to his companions for information, but they only shrugged their shoulders gloomily and shook their heads.

At Namur they left the car, and the orderly, who had told Stewart that his destination was Landen, some distance farther on, came back to sit with him in the tonneau, evidently welcoming the opportunity to talk to some one. He had spent two or three years as a clerk in an uncle's silk house in Boston, and so spoke English fluently. He too was gloomy about the immediate outlook. The French, it seemed, had been caught off their guard--or, rather, while guarding themselves from the only blow which could legitimately be struck at them by mobilizing along the eastern frontier, had been stabbed in the back by the German attack through Belgium.

The orderly said frankly that the situation was serious--and was certain to become more serious before it could improve. The mobilization of a million men was an intricate task; it would take time to swing the army around from the east to the north--a week at least. And it would be impossible to give the Belgians any real assistance before that time. And that would probably be too late.

"Too late?" said Stewart, in surprise. "Aren't the Belgians holding?"

"Oh, yes, they are holding," his companion answered. "They are fighting gallantly. The forts at Liège even have not yet fallen--but it can be only a matter of hours until they do. Then the flood will be let loose, and all the little Belgian army can hope to do is to fight delaying rear-guard actions as it retreats."

"Perhaps the English can get in," Stewart suggested.

"The English? But England has no army--or, at best, a mere handful of regulars. Perhaps in two years she will be able to do something."

"Two years?" echoed Stewart, staring at his companion to see if he was in earnest. "Do you really think this war can last that long?"

"It will last longer than that," the other answered composedly. "It will last until Germany is totally defeated--it will last till she is freed from slavery to the military caste--until the Hohenzollerns are driven from the throne. And that will take a long time."

"Yes," agreed Stewart. "From what I have seen of the German army, I should say it would!"

The Frenchman looked at him quickly.

"You have seen the German army?"

"Yes," and Stewart told something of his experience, while the other listened intently.

"It is this first onslaught--this first rush--which is dangerous," said the Frenchman, when he had finished. "Germany has staked everything upon that--upon catching us unawares and winning the war with one swift, terrible blow. If we can escape that--if we can ward it off--we shall win. If not--well, it will be for England and America to free the world."

"America?" echoed Stewart. "Surely...."

"You in America do not understand," broke in his companion, "as we in Europe understand--but you will before this war is very old."

"Understand what?"

"That this is not a war of nations, but a war of ideals. It is the last desperate struggle of medieval despotism to save itself and to enslave the world. If it succeeds, democracy will vanish. Every free nation will go in fear, and one by one will perish. But it will not succeed--humanity cannot permit it to succeed. Before this war is finished, all the free peoples of the earth will be banded together in a league of brotherhood--America with all the others--at the head of all the others. She will be fighting for her freedom as truly as in her War of Independence--and for the freedom of all mankind as well. She will realize this--she will realize what this black menace of autocracy means for the world--and she will come in. She will be with us, hand in hand--shoulder to shoulder."

"Pray God it may be so!" said Stewart, in a low voice, but his heart misgave him.

How could America--that great, inchoate country, that ferment of all the nations of the world, aloof from Europe, guarded by three thousand miles of sea--be made to understand? How could she be made to see that this was her fight--specially and peculiarly her fight? How could she be made to realize that Germany's ruthless sword was slashing, not at Belgium or France or England, but at the ideals, the principles, the very foundation stones of the American Republic?

It seemed too much to hope for; but perhaps, some day....

And then he realized that they were nearing the place where the first skirmish of the great battle for human freedom was being fought, for the road became so thronged with fugitives that the car was forced to slow down and almost burrow a path through the forlorn and panic-stricken people toiling eastward--eastward--they knew not where--anywhere away from the stark horror behind them! They were of all sorts--young and old, rich and poor--and many of them moved as in a trance, unable to understand the disaster which had befallen them.

At last Stewart saw ahead the red roofs of a little town.

"Landen," said his companion. "It has a very large convent, which has been turned into a hospital for this whole section of the front. All our ambulances now discharge there, and naturally the place is very crowded. The nuns have been wonderful, but you have some hard work ahead."

"That's what I want," said Stewart, with a nod.

The car was bumping over the cobbles of the town, and in a moment stopped before a great, barrack-like building, covering an entire block. An ambulance was unloading at the door, and Stewart caught a glimpse of a livid, anguished face....

Yes, here was something he could do; and he followed his companion up the steps. At the top a black-coifed nun awaited them.

"This is Doctor Stewart," said the orderly, and added a sentence in French so rapid that Stewart could not follow it. But the nun understood and smiled warmly and held out her hand.

"I am glad to see you, sir," she said, in careful English. "If you will follow me," and she led the way along a white-washed corridor. "Perhaps you will wish to rest and refresh yourself before----"

"No," Stewart broke in. "Let me get to work at once."

The nun smiled again, and opened the door into a little room with a single snowy bed.

"If you will wait here a moment," she said, and as Stewart entered, closed the door after him.

Not until he was inside the room did he realize that the bed had an occupant. Instinctively he turned toward the door.

"Oh, do not go!" said a voice.

He stopped, trembling; turned slowly, incredulously....

Those luminous eyes--that glowing face--those outstretched arms....

"Little Comrade!"

And he was on his knees beside the bed, holding her close--close....

THE END

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close.

THE RAINBOW TRAIL

The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands--until at last love and faith awake.

DESERT GOLD

The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine.

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the story.

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines."

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problem of this great story.

THE SHORT STOP

The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win.

BETTY ZANE

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.

THE LONE STAR RANGER

After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.

THE BORDER LEGION

Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved him--she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader--and nurses him to health again. Here enters another romance--when Joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.

THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS

By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey

The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," as told by his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous.

JACK LONDON'S NOVELS

JOHN BARLEYCORN. Illustrated by H. T. Dunn.

This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against John Barleycorn. It is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetable idea and makes a typical Jack London book.

THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper.

The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster and ex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. They tramp from one end of California to the other, and in the Valley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation.

BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations.

The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing his fortunes to the States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts out as a merciless exploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. About this time he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story!

A SON OF THE SUN. Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C. W. Ashley.

David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from England to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. The life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy.

THE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles Livingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper.

A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. Here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes.

THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward.

Told by a man whom fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with delight.

WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull.

"White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. Thereafter he is man's loving slave.