“You say—­that his back is broken?”

“But yes, my dear,” Liane’s Philippe had told her, and she had seen the tears shining in his gray eyes.

“And he is badly burned?”

“My brave Janie, these questions are not good to ask—­not good, not good to answer.  This I will tell you.  He lives, our Jerry—­and so dearly does he love you that he will drag back that poor body from hell itself—­because it is yours, not his.  This he has sent me to tell you, most lucky lady ever loved.”

“You mean—­that he isn’t going to die?”

“I tell you that into those small hands of yours he has given his life.  Hold it fast.”

“Will he—­will he get well?” “He will not walk again; but have you not swift feet to run for him?”

And there had come to her, sitting on the terrace in the sunshine, an overwhelming flood of joy, reckless and cruel and triumphant.  Now he was hers forever, the restless wanderer—­delivered to her bound and helpless, never to stray again.  Hers to worship and serve and slave for, his troth to Freedom broken—­hers at last!

“I’m coming,” she had told the tall young Frenchman breathlessly.  “Take me to him—­please let’s hurry.”

“Ma pauvre petite, this is war.  One does not come and go at will.  God knows by what miracle enough red tape unwound to let me through to you, to bring my message and to take one back.”

“What message, Philippe?”

“That is for you to say, little Janie.  He told me, ’Say to her that she has my heart—­if she needs my body, I will live.  Say to her that it is an ugly, broken, and useless thing; still, hers.  She must use it as she sees fit.  Say to her—­no, say nothing more.  She is my Janie, and has no need of words.  Tell her to send me only one, and I will be content.’  For that one word, Janie, I have come many miles.  What shall it be?”

And she had cried out exultantly, “Why, tell him that I say—­” But the word had died in her throat.  Her treacherous lips had mutinied, and she had sat there, feeling the blood drain back out of her face—­out of her heart—­feeling her eyes turn back with sheer terror, while she fought with those stiffened rebels.  Such a little word “Live!”—­surely they could say that.  Was it not what he was waiting for, lying far away and still—­schooled at last to patience, the reckless and the restless!  Oh, Jerry, Jerry, live!  Even now she could feel her mind, like some frantic little wild thing, racing, racing to escape Memory.  What had he said to her?  “You, wise beyond wisdom, will never hold me—­you will never hold me—­you will never—­”

And suddenly she had dropped her twisted hands in her lap and lifted her eyes to Jerry’s ambassador.

“Will you please tell him—­will you please tell him that I say—­’Contact’?”

“Contact?” He had stood smiling down at her, ironical and tender.  “Ah, what a race!  That is the prettiest word that you can find for Jerry?  But then it means to come very close, to touch, that poor harsh word—­there he must find what comfort he can.  We, too, in aviation use that word—­it is the signal that says—­’Now, you can fly!’ You do not know our vocabulary, perhaps?”