Scarcely were the children lifted down before Marian had kneeled and taken them in her arms. Quicker than Bonsecours she had read the story of their destruction, and now sobbed over them as though her heart would break. One had clasped her neck, but the other two, unable to stand, merely stared with wide-open eyes devoid of the slightest understanding. It was when the great French surgeon looked upon these—little tots whose minds were shattered by cruelties purposely conceived for them, and whose bodies were starved to skeleton thinness in order that thieves and degenerates might grow fat—that he swore a mighty oath and buried his face in his hands.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu," he muttered fiercely, "how many more will they add to the thousands I have already seen!"

Jeb had glanced only once at Marian, being afraid of the reproach her eyes might still hold for him; but as soon as a squad trotted up to receive the prisoners he turned away, welcoming another duty which sternly summoned him back to the plain. For the machine-gun redoubts had to be taken before their deadly fire could pour into those brave fellows who had swept ahead—and this must be done before uncompromising daylight made the work too costly! So he turned without glancing again at Marian. Yet no decoration for a brave deed might have been more brilliant than her look which followed him, could she have shut out the torturing picture of his debasement at the shell hole. A quick prayer sprang from her soul into space as she whispered fervently: "God keep his courage stiff!" She had not thought about his body; she did not care about his body! It was to make a soldier that she prayed.

Bonsecours, having seen the look and movement of her lips, asked gently:

"Do you know him?"

"We grew up in the same town, back home," she answered, still gazing after Jeb.

"Oh!" he said. It was a gasp of pain, and he stood as though a shell had burst and stunned him. In his headlong work between guns of opposing armies, he had never stopped to wonder if there might be someone else in this Nurse Marian's life; and now, stung by a possible realization of it, his mind leaped outward to fears and fancied facts—all of which she might have told him were groundless. Turning toward the dug-out, he said briefly over his shoulder: "Please see to the children. My own cases are waiting."

Down into the trench Jeb had run, calling for an officer, and was soon making his report to the Colonel, who peremptorily asked:

"You can show us these positions?"

"Two of them, sir; the others must occupy the same general line."

Silently, but in the highest spirits, three thousand men went over the top, deploying in open order to make their drag-net stretch to its farthest capacity and sweep up the redoubts, whose locations, after all, were largely a matter of conjecture.

Jeb, fighting hard to hold himself steady, pressed toward the right, where he thought the first digging party could be found; yet, before he sighted it, firing broke out to his left, then farther to his left—each time with the unmistakable fusillade of machine-guns answered by cracking rifles. One bunch at a time, the enemy was being flushed from cover; yet at each new outburst he gasped more and more for air,—feeling in his soul what was coming over him, and swearing roundly to drive it back.

"We ain't going to miss anything, are we?" a cheery voice at his back called out.

"We'll find it, all right," he panted; but might have saved his breath, for that very instant they were met by a fire which, in a light less deceptive, would have been gruelling even to their openly deployed skirmish line.

Without awaiting commands—were there any to wait for—the men, ducking low, dashed past him toward the pit, leaped down into it gouging their bayonets right and left. With the sentry's rifle still in his hands he tried to follow; but at the brink, being confronted by sounds of steel upon steel, oaths, grunts, yells of victory and of pain, his legs refused to move. The old fear was wrapping itself about him. But then came cries of "Kamerad!"—and upon hearing these he bounded in, knowing the place had surrendered.

"The ruined hamlet next," he yelled. "There's a lot of supplies there!"

The men sprang out after him, laughing now in sheer exuberance of spirits, and throwing taunts at a few of their disgruntled mates who had been left to watch the prisoners and spoils. But Jeb could not laugh. His jaws were set in grim determination. He was soul-sick and furious. He had not played fair—although his comrades were far from suspecting it. He swore to himself over and over, on the memory of those children whom he had saved at this place, that he would be the first to go in and the last to come out, were it to mean death a hundred times.

But the hamlet put up no resistance; it lay still and deserted, as though some marauding monster had torn it in its teeth and passed on by. This silence, however, did not deceive Jeb. Even through the chaos of his brain he had a rather fair idea of how many small engagements had taken place back on the plain, and judged them to be far short of the newly built redoubts; thereby conjecturing that several of the companies must have deserted their positions and fallen in upon the more secure catacombs. Advising the men to scatter and search the cellars, he discovered at last a large, although artfully disguised, opening to the subterranean area below.

"Who speaks German?" he asked, of those who stood about him.

"I," said one.

"Then yell down and tell 'em to come out, or be blown out!"

But someone below must have understood English and quickly translated, because long cries of "Kamerad, Kamerad," floated eerily up, as if a cover had been lifted from some pit in hell releasing the wails of incarcerated spirits. Answering with yells of derision the troops climbed to the street level and formed to receive prisoners; whereupon, casting rifles aside as they gained the open, the inhabitants of this underworld filed out.

When the catacombs had been searched and quantities of munitions for the machine-guns salvaged, Jeb led the way back across the now silent No Man's Land that had passed into the pages of history. One by one the other units were picked up, standing guard over captured positions. Everything had been swept into the Allied pocket at an insignificant cost.

Dawn had not yet streaked the east. Except for a fitful shot somewhere back across the plain, where an overstrained sentry fired at a shadow, the world slept. The regiment, flushed and happy, sprang down into its trench; and Jeb was turning glumly toward the gravelly road, when the Colonel stepped after him.

"I haven't your name," he said. "I want to send it in."

"Oh, that's all right," Jeb answered, afraid to look at this commander of men, lest even in the dim light his stricken conscience might be revealed.

"But it isn't all right," the officer smiled. "I heard what you did earlier to-night—a rather fine thing, that!—and now you've turned another trick, giving us eight hundred prisoners, twelve machine-gun sections, and various stuff. You deserve a mention."

"Then just tell 'em," Jeb began; but he could not claim it and, blushing guiltily, hurried off, yelling over his shoulder: "It isn't worth while, really!"

Yet there had been something else that happened out on the field which meant a great deal more to him. It had been while they were marching homeward, when this same officer had laid a hand upon his arm and said: "I hope the American army which landed yesterday is made up of your stuff!" The words did not in any sense imply doubt; merely compliment, but Jeb inwardly cringed because the American Army had been graded, even in ignorance, with such as he. At that instant he had made a resolve—an earnest, solemn resolve—to join that army and, by its influence, prove himself worthy.

He now went hurriedly down into the quadrangle and turned to the dug-out where he expected to find Bonsecours—the man who superseded Barrow in authority. For he guessed that an ambulance would be standing farther at the rear, waiting for the nine men whom he had brought in. When it took them back, he determined that it would also take him to the fellows from home who had just landed—to a new opportunity! Perhaps it was ready to leave at any moment, and this thought gave him greater speed.

As he entered Tim, the last to receive attention, lay in a stretcher ready to be moved. He had insisted upon being last, claiming this preference because of the fact that he was a sergeant; and now, although with a badly shattered leg which the surgeon had told him might later have to go, he grinned broadly as Jeb clasped his hand. Bonsecours' greeting also was affectionate and genuine; for, despite his fading hope of happiness, and the memory of Jeb's face which had worn the stamp of abject fear twenty-four hours earlier, he was too big a man to refuse tribute to a manly deed.

"Well, lad," Tim, his mouth drawn with pain, tried to laugh—tried to "bluff it out" so Jeb would not suspect the truth, "I'm thinkin' thot life's wan domn hole after anither! First, mind ye, 'tis the swimmin' hole, thin the shell hole, thin a hole in me leg, an' next we know 'tis a stay-for-keeps hole in the ground! W'ot a divil av a hole the ould world is, after all! But me leg'll be all right in a fortnight, lad," (oh, Tim, you beloved liar!) "an' thin I'll be back wid the b'ys twict as strong as iver!"

"That's mighty fine news," Jeb laughed. "But I hope to go back with you now!"

"I'm not goin' now," Tim cried angrily. "I've swore 'tis not a step I take till I've said 'God bless ye' to thot angel nurse!"

"There, there, Tim, keep quiet! Haven't I promised that you could?" Bonsecours smiled at him.

"Thin w'ot's the lad sayin' about takin' me now?"

"Oh, I only meant when you are ready, Tim," Jeb did his part to quiet the excited little sergeant; then, to the doctor, he added quickly: "I want to go back with the ambulance, that's all. The Americans landed yesterday, and——"

"But," the surgeon gasped at this unusual request, "Barrow needs you!"

"I guess he doesn't, so awfully much," Jeb flushed. "If you can possibly arrange it for me, I'll be greatly obliged. I've—I've just got to get in the ranks, Doctor! I can't explain what I mean—but it's those children! Why, if each of the ten million American fellows who registered for our New Army could see only a part of cruelties I've seen, they'd break their necks getting over here!—and they wouldn't go back, either, not even for Christmas, till the last of these German High-in-Command was in prison, or dead! I'm only asking for a chance to make good——"

"Cut thot out," Tim called huskily. "It hur-rts me leg!"

Bonsecours laughed but, still protesting, said:

"I can't keep the ambulance waiting!"

"You won't have to; I'm ready now."

"But your kit——?"

"Is on my back, sir."

Two big orderlies came in and picked up the stretcher, whereupon Tim grew again excited.

"Put me down, ye little runts," he yelled, "afore I git up an' smash——"

"There, there," Bonsecours hastily interposed; saying to them: "Take this brave fellow to Dug-out Three—he wants to see Nurse Marian. I'll be right after you." But the instant they had left he turned to Jeb, asking sharply: "Do you realize what your leaving means?"

"I think I do, sir."

"You would deliberately put upon me the responsibility of sending you?"

"Why, yes," Jeb answered, somewhat perplexed.

"Then I refuse!" the surgeon snapped. "I refuse, until you bring me word that your little nurse friend from America desires it!"

Unaware of what was passing in Bonsecours' mind, Jeb stared after him in complete amazement. He had intended, of course, to see Marian and say good-bye to her, although it was an interview toward which he looked with so much dread that once or twice he had thought of escaping it, and writing her from somewhere else. Yet now he must bring some word from her to this cranky surgeon, or he dared not leave, at all! His nerves were rattled, and he fumbled through his pockets for the "makings"; spilled the tobacco and threw his ineffectual effort away in disgust. Marian was in Dug-out Three, with Tim, Bonsecours, and the stretcher-bearers! Oh, well, he told himself, perhaps it would be easier to have them all present!—and he went out resolutely, turning toward the third entrance. But on the threshold his resolution failed, and he drew back, staring.

The soft light from an oil lamp made the interior look warm and attractive, particularly because Marian was standing by the side of Tim, smiling tenderly down at him. Across from her Bonsecours stood, also smiling, but with a look of weariness—perhaps it was unhappiness. The bearers were grinning, as the little sergeant now continued with what, evidently, he had been saying:

"So ye see, lass, I couldn't go Blighty till I'd whispered a 'God bless ye' to me own, an' only, sister!"

"I'd be very proud if you were my brother, Tim," she replied, soothingly.

"She'd be very proud if I were," he looked at Bonsecours with a broad grin. "Now w'ot d'ye know about thot, Doctor! If I were, indade!—as if I wasn't! Shure, an' if the same blood don't run in both our veins, 'tis not Tim Doreen as would be here now, a-tellin' av it!"

"You're perfectly right," the surgeon laughed. "I did that deed myself, and it ought to make you her brother!"

"Ought to! Faith, an' it did!—iver since thot day the blessed angel says to ye: 'Thin do yer dooty an' save 'im!', as she put out her ar-rm for the sacrifice thot kept me here on earth!"

"Please stop—both of you!" she implored.

"Shure, lass, an' 'tis no harm speakin' av a noble deed. An' now," he added, folding his hands upon his breast, and closing his eyes in mock contentment, "'tis me last wish an' tistament to make the good Doctor Bonsecours me brother-in-law!"

"One must be in his right mind to make a last 'wish and tistament,'" Marian tried to look at him severely; but, the next instant, she leaned impulsively over and kissed his cheeks—then ran out the doorway.

Jeb had barely time to draw back when she dashed past him and turned toward the road leading above the dug-outs. She might readily have seen him had her haste and confusion been less, because the dawn was coming, and objects in the quadrangle were vaguely beginning to take shape. A new day was creeping up over the hill. The cold, unsympathetic light, matching the compass of his thoughts, made the world look gray and sordid.

He had heard, and now realized with a new depression that henceforth he could be no more a part of her life than any one of the millions who were fighting the battle of Humanity in this stricken land. Not that he pretended to love her inordinately, by any means, but a man need only love a girl with a very small portion of his heart to feel a throb of pain when she surrenders to some one else. It was this sense of being left behind that hurt; of being deserted by his old playmate—and of deserving it! He turned slowly and followed after her.

She did not hear him as he came up, and when he approached to within a few feet of her he saw the reason. The dawn was streaking the sky with pink and salmon tints, and, although her eyes were gazing into it, her thoughts reached far beyond. Standing upon the hilltop, her hands crossed over the red emblem on her breast, the half-light of soft color touching her immobile face, she typified the Spirit of Mercy poised above the unawakened battlefield, ready at the first gun's crash to fly downward with her warmth, her strength, her sympathy.

For the moment forgetting his own mission in the presence of the transfigured Marian, Jeb stood abashed. Yet the minutes were passing, and the ambulance would not wait.

"I—I came up to say good-bye," he stammered, awkwardly. "I'm going."

She turned, seeming reluctant to be torn from her meditations, and quietly asked:

"Where?"

He told her in a few words, adding:

"Bonsecours won't give his permission unless you agree."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

But she knew. From a multitude of small things, and with an intuition almost divine, she read another chapter of the great surgeon's nobility, and turned her eyes again toward the rainbow east. It was perhaps what she saw there in the changing sunrise that impelled her to whisper softly:

"I hope you'll always be as brave as you were last night, Jeb."

His cheeks burned, but he faced her without flinching and replied:

"I'm never going to run away again, if that's what you mean!"

"I had not intended to put it so cruelly, Jeb. You've done a great thing to-night, because you conquered two enemies at the same time—the one within you being infinitely a harder fight than the one without. I appreciate that, and am glad for you."

"I want you to forget that—that disgrace at the shell hole," he said, doggedly.

"Forget?" Her voice broke hysterically, and her eyes filled with tears of pity. "Ask me to forgive it, Jeb, and I may—but, forget it? Oh, how can I? Don't you understand?—I saw it! I saw it!"

"Stop, stop—please!" he cried huskily, passing his hand across his face. "Then don't forget, if—if you can't; but I'd hate to think of the Colonel, and Aunt Sallie, and——"

"Your secret is safe, if that's what you fear," she said, now as composedly as she had a moment before been moved. Again, for half a minute, she faced the sunrise, when her voice came wistfully:

"Oh, God, if—if I just hadn't seen it!"

He realized with full conviction that an impassable gulf lay between him and this girl. It was not his debasing weakness, so much as her discovery of it, that would forever stamp him with the brand of shame. The Arab sheik who one time said: "A thief may loot my tent and I will curse all thieves, but do I catch him at it and he dies!"—expressed the mind of all humanity. Marian had seen Jeb; and this meant that he was dead to her.

He watched her for a moment longer, then in a dispirited voice asked:

"Shall I tell Bonsecours it's all right for me to go?"

Without taking her face from the east, she answered evenly:

"Yes; tell him it's all right for you to go. I am praying God to watch over you, and—and make you truly worthy of a place among our soldiers from home."

He glanced back, and saw, far beyond the quadrangle, two stretcher-bearers carrying Tim to the waiting ambulance. Once more he looked at Marian, tried twice to speak, but stood humbly mute before her—awed by her ennobling beauty. For again her exquisite hands were crossed over the red emblem upon her breast, her eyes gazed into the glorified sky, and her lips moved as she pleaded with the God of Hosts to fire this playmate at her side with the divine spark of courage—and keep him brave.

Jeb bowed his head, feeling as though he were within the precinct of a holy shrine; then in silence turned and went down the road, walking with firm steps which, he prayed, would lead to the dawn of a new manhood.

The first of the "75's" crashed spitefully, and in a chaotic instant the air and earth again were shorn of their blessed peace. Instantly the sky became streaked with trails of smoke from over-passing shells. Far to the north they fell and burst into white spray, as though a long Atlantic comber were pounding on a rocky shore.

She turned once and looked toward it, moved by infinite pity for the men who were being shattered; then started slowly back into the quadrangle, just as Bonsecours dashed wildly up in search of her.

There were no words that he could say; he merely stood in front of her, holding out his arms. Her fingers, still laced over the Red Cross, fluttered nervously, as a butterfly, at the beginning of a summer storm, will cling to a flower—wanting, yet not daring to leave lest its frail wings, caught upon the wind, might carry it far out into an unexplored world. But her eyes gazed at him with illimitable yearning; then gently she swayed, stretched out her hands, and ran to him.