THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
“There is nothing to forgive. It is the fortune of war.”
“Is it painful? I am something of a chirurgeon. Let me—” He looked her in the face, and then drew back in a mingling of confusion and pride.
“It is nothing, I tell you,” she broke in, with a stamp of the foot. “Nothing. I do not even feel it.” And when she had enwrapped it again she lowered her voice until it trembled with the earnestness of her entreaty. “Have pity, monsieur—pity!”
The Frenchman had turned away and was looking out into the moonless night. The slender white hand stole faltering forward until it rested upon the coarse sleeve of his coat.
“Take me with you, monsieur. Take me aboard the Saucy Sally.”
And still looking out to sea, he replied, in a voice gruff and rugged, which did not avail to hide a generous courtesy beneath:
“It shall be as you wish, madame. Bid the señorita prepare at once.”
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