o battle; and tell them
in France----"

For the first time her eyes filled with great tears as the name of her
beloved land paused upon her lips. She stretched her arms out with a
gesture of infinite longing, like a lost child that vainly seeks its
mother.

"If I could only see France once more! France----"

It was the last word upon her utterance; her eyes met Cecil's in one
fleeting, upward glance of unutterable tenderness, then, with her hands
still stretched out westward to where her country was, and with the
dauntless heroism of her smile upon her face like light, she gave a
tired sigh as of a child that sinks to sleep, and in the midst of her
Army of Africa the Little One lay dead.

In the shadow of his tent, at midnight he whom she had rescued stood
looking down at a bowed, stricken form before him with an exceeding,
yearning pity in his gaze.

The words had at length been spoken that had lifted from him the burden
of another's guilt; the hour at last had come in which his eyes had
met the eyes of his friend, without a hidden thought between them. The
sacrifice was ended, the martyrdom was over; henceforth this doom of
exile and of wretchedness would be but as a hideous dream; henceforth
his name would be stainless among men, and the desire of his heart would
be given him. And in this hour of release the strongest feeling in him
was the sadness of an infinite compassion; and where his brother was
stretched prostrate in shame before him, Cecil stooped and raised him
tenderly.

"Say no more," he murmured. "It has been well for me that I have
suffered these things. For yourself--if you do indeed repent, and feel
that you owe me any debt, atone for it, and pay it, by letting your own
life be strong in truth and fair in honor."

And it seemed to him that he himself had done no great or righteous
thing in that servitude for another's sake, whose yoke was now lifted
off him for evermore. But, looking out over the sleeping camp where one
young child alone lay in a slumber that never would be broken, his
heart ached with the sense of some great, priceless gift received, and
undeserved, and cast aside; even while in the dreams of passion that
now knew its fruition possible, and the sweetness of communion with the
friend whose faith had never forsaken him, he retraced the years of his
exile, and thanked God that it was thus with him at the end.

CHAPTER THE LAST.

AT REST.

Under the green, springtide