Daniel Colton, now a colonel, his arm in a sling, was not far away.  Carstairs was there, a bandage about his head, and Wharton was with him, his shoulder yet sore from the path that a bullet had made through it.  It was decreed that while these friends of John’s should receive many wounds, all of them were to survive the great war.

They were to spend three days at the little house beyond the Seine before sailing, and as the twilight came on they sat together and looked out over the City of Light, melting into the dusk after a golden day.  The subdued hum of Paris came to them in a note of infinite sweetness and peace.

John was stirred to the depths, but his emotion, like that of most deep natures, was quiet.  He felt Julie’s hand tremble a little in his own, as the voice of Paris grew fainter but sweeter.  The twilight faded into the night and the buildings grew misty.

“We have passed through many dangers, Julie,” said John, “but for me at least the reward is greater than them all.  When did you begin to love me?”

“You were my gallant knight from the first, but, if it had not been so, how could I have kept from loving the fearless crusader who dared all and who risked his life every day in the country of the enemy to save me?”

“I’d have been a poor and worthless creature if I hadn’t done so, Julie.”

“Few men have done so, though, even for love.”

Stirred by an emotion deeper than ever, and wholly pure, he put his arms around her, and their lips met in a long kiss of young love.

The first dusk thinned away, the sky turned to a vault of burnished silver, and, the infinite stars coming out, danced their approval.