and the cheers
rang out, drowning for a moment the monotonous thunder of the Prussian
guns. Pipes and cigarettes were lighted, and Trent listened an instant to the
animated chatter around him, broken by ripples of laughter from the girls
or the mellow chuckle of Fallowby. Then he turned to West. "There is going to be a sortie to-night," he said. "I saw the American
Ambulance surgeon just before I came in and he asked me to speak to you
fellows. Any aid we can give him will not come amiss." Then dropping his voice and speaking in English, "As for me, I shall go
out with the ambulance to-morrow morning. There is of course no danger,
but it's just as well to keep it from Sylvia." West nodded. Thorne and Guernalec, who had heard, broke in and offered
assistance, and Fallowby volunteered with a groan. "All right," said Trent rapidly,--"no more now, but meet me at Ambulance
headquarters to-morrow morning at eight." Sylvia and Colette, who were becoming uneasy at the conversation in
English, now demanded to know what they were talking about. "What does a sculptor usually talk about?" cried West, with a laugh. Odile glanced reproachfully at Thorne, her _fiancé_. "You are not French, you know, and it is none of your business, this war,"
said Odile with much dignity. Thorne looked meek, but West assumed an air of outraged virtue. "It seems," he said to Fallowby, "that a fellow cannot discuss the
beauties of Greek sculpture in his mother tongue, without being openly
suspected." Colette placed her hand over his mouth and turning to Sylvia, murmured,
"They are horridly untruthful, these men." "I believe the word for ambulance is the same in both languages," said
Marie Guernalec saucily; "Sylvia, don't trust Monsieur Trent." "Jack," whispered Sylvia, "promise me--"

A knock at the studio door interrupted her. "Come in!" cried Fallowby, but Trent sprang up, and opening the door,
looked out. Then with a hasty excuse to the rest, he stepped into the
hall-way and closed the door. When he returned he was grumbling. "What is it, Jack?" cried West. "What is it?" repeated Trent savagely; "I'll tell you what it is. I have
received a dispatch from the American Minister to go at once and identify
and claim, as a fellow-countryman and a brother artist, a rascally thief
and a German spy!" "Don't go," suggested Fallowby. "If I don't they'll shoot him at once." "Let them," growled Thorne. "Do you fellows know who it is?" "Hartman!" shouted West, inspired. Sylvia sprang up deathly white, but Odile slipped her arm around her and
supported her to a chair, saying calmly, "Sylvia has fainted,--it's the
hot room,--bring some water." Trent brought it at once. Sylvia opened her eyes, and after a moment rose, and supported by Marie
Guernalec and Trent, passed into the bedroom. It was the signal for breaking up, and everybody came and shook hands with
Trent, saying they hoped Sylvia would sleep it off and that it would be
nothing. When Marie Guernalec took leave of him, she avoided his eyes, but he spoke
to her cordially and thanked her for her aid. "Anything I can do, Jack?" inquired West, lingering, and then hurried
downstairs to catch up with the rest. Trent leaned over the banisters, listening to their footsteps and chatter,
and then the lower door banged and the house was silent. He lingered,
staring down into the blackness, biting his lips; then with an impatient
movement, "I am crazy!" he muttered, and lighting a candle, went into the
bedroom. Sylvia was lying on the bed. He bent over her, smoothing the
curly hair on her forehead. "Are you better, dear Sylvia?" She did not answer, but raised her eyes to his. For an instant he met her
gaze, but what he read there sent a chill to his heart and he sat down
covering his face with his hands. At last she spoke in a voice, changed and strained,--a voice which he had
never heard, and he dropped his hands and listened, bolt upright in his
chair. "Jack, it has come at last. I have feared it and trembled,--ah! how often
have I lain awake at night with this on my heart and prayed that I might
die before you should ever know of it! For I love you, Jack, and if you go
away I cannot live. I have deceived you;--it happened before I knew you,
but since that first day when you found me weeping in the Luxembourg and
spoke to me, Jack, I have been faithful to you in every thought and deed. I loved you from the first, and did not dare to tell you this--fearing
that you would go away; and since then my love has grown--grown--and oh! I
suffered!--but I dared not tell you. And now you know, but you do not know
the worst. For him--now--what do I care? He was cruel--oh, so cruel!" She hid her face in her arms. "Must I go on? Must I tell you--can you not imagine, oh! Jack--"

He did not stir; his eyes seemed dead. "I--I was so young, I knew nothing, and he said--said that he loved me--"

Trent rose and struck the candle with his clenched fist, and the room was
dark. The bells of St. Sulpice tolled the hour, and she started up, speaking
with feverish haste,--"I must finish! When you told me you loved
me--you--you asked me nothing; but then, even then, it was too late, and
_that other life_ which binds me to him, must stand for ever between you
and me! For there _is another_ whom he has claimed, and is good to. He
must not die,--they cannot shoot him, for that _other's_ sake!" Trent sat motionless, but his thoughts ran on in an interminable whirl. Sylvia, little Sylvia, who shared with him his student life,--who bore
with him the dreary desolation of the siege without complaint,--this
slender blue-eyed girl whom he was so quietly fond of, whom he teased or
caressed as the whim suited, who sometimes made him the least bit
impatient with her passionate devotion to him,--could this be the same
Sylvia who lay weeping there in the darkness? Then he clinched his teeth. "Let him die! Let him die!" --but then,--for
Sylvia's sake, and,--for that _other's_ sake,--Yes, he would go,--he
_must_ go,--his duty was plain before him. But Sylvia,--he could not be
what he had been to her, and yet a vague terror seized him, now all was
said. Trembling, he struck a light. She lay there, her curly hair tumbled about her face, her small white
hands pressed to her breast. He could not leave her, and he could not stay. He never knew before that
he loved her. She had been a mere comrade, this girl wife of his. Ah! he
loved her now with all his heart and soul, and he knew it, only when it
was too late. Too late? Why? Then he thought of that _other_ one, binding
her, linking her forever to the creature, who stood in danger of his life. With an oath he sprang to the door, but the door would not open,--or was
it that he pressed it back,--locked it,--and flung himself on his knees
beside the bed, knowing that he dared not for his life's sake leave what
was his all in life. III

It was four in the morning when he came out of the Prison of the Condemned
with the Secretary of the American Legation.