must lie in the
room beyond."

The fever seized Jack with a swiftness incredible.

"Then--swear it--by the--by the Saviour there--there on your
crucifix!" he muttered.

"I swear," she answered, softly.

His mind wandered a little, but he set his teeth and rose,
staggering to the table. He wrote something on a bit of paper
with shaking fingers.

"Send for them," he said. "You can telegraph now. They are in
Brussels--my sister--my family--"

Then, blinded by the raging fever, he made his way uncertainly to
the bed, groped for Lorraine's hand, pressed it, and lay down at
her feet.

"Call the surgeon!" he gasped.

And it was very many days before he said anything else with as
much sense in it.

"God help them!" cried the Sister of Mercy, tearfully, her thin
hands clasped to her lips. Alone she guided Jack into the room
beyond.

Outside the Prussian bands were playing. The sun flung a long,
golden beam through the window straight across Lorraine's breast.

She stirred, and murmured in her sleep, "Jack! Jack! 'Tiens ta
Foy!'"

But Jack was past hearing now; and when, at sundown, the young
surgeon came into his room he was nearly past all aid.

"Typhoid?" asked the Sister.

"The Pest!" said the surgeon, gravely.

The Sister started a little.

"I will stay," she murmured. "Send this despatch when you go out.
Can he live?"

They whispered together a moment, stepping softly to the door of
the room where Lorraine lay.

"It can't be helped now," said the surgeon, looking at Lorraine;
"she'll be well enough by to-morrow; she must stay with you. The
chances are that he will die."

The trample of the White Cuirassiers in the street outside filled
the room; the serried squadrons thundered past, steel ringing on
steel, horses neighing, trumpets sounding the "Royal March."
Lorraine's eyes unclosed.

"Jack!"

There was no answer.

The surgeon whispered to the Sister of Mercy: "Don't forget to
hang out the pest flag."

"Jack! Jack!" wailed Lorraine, sitting up in bed. Through the
tangled masses of her heavy hair, gilded by the morning sunshine,
her eyes, bright with fever, roamed around the room, startled,
despairing. Under the window the White Cuirassiers were singing
as they rode:

"Flieg', Adler, flieg'! Wir stuermen nach,
Ein einig Volk in Waffen,
Wir stuermen nach ob tausendfach
Des Todes Pforten Klaffen!
Und fallen wir, flieg', Adler, flieg'!
Aus unserm Blute maechst de