“That hardly matters,” said Henri, smiling faintly.  “Because I think you shall not go to Boulogne.”

“Not go!” She stopped dead, under the monument, and looked up at him.

“The place for you to go, to start from, is Calais,” Henri explained.  He paused, to let pass two lovers, a man in khaki and a girl.  “But Calais is difficult.  It is under martial law—­a closed city.  From Boulogne to Calais would be perhaps impossible.”

Sara Lee was American and her methods were direct.

“How can I get to Calais?”

“Will you take the chance I spoke of?”

“For goodness’ sake,” said Sara Lee in an exasperated tone, “how can I tell you until I know what it is?”

Henri told her.  He even, standing under a street lamp, drew a small sketch for her, to make it clear.  Sara Lee stood close, watching him, and some of the lines were not as steady as they might have been.  And in the midst of it he suddenly stopped.

“Do you know what it means?” he demanded.

“Yes, of course.”

“And you know what date this is?”

“The eighteenth of February.”

But he saw, after all, that she did not entirely understand.

“To-night, this eighteenth of February, the Germans commence a blockade of this coast.  No vessels, if they can prevent them, will leave the harbors; or if they do, none shall reach the other side!”

“Oh!” said Sara Lee blankly.

“We are eager to do as you wish, mademoiselle.  But”—­he commenced slowly to tear up the sketch—­“it is too dangerous.  You are too young.  If anything should go wrong and I had—­No.  We will find another way.”

He put the fragments of the sketch in his pocket.

“How long is this blockade to last?” Sara Lee asked out of bitter disappointment.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Who can say?  A week!  A year!  Not at all!”

“Then,” said Sara Lee with calm deliberation, “you might as well get out your pencil and draw another picture—­because I’m going.”

Far enough away now, the little house at home and the peace that dwelt therein; and Harvey; and the small white bedroom; and the daily round of quiet duties.  Sara Lee had set her face toward the east, and the land of dying men.  And as Henri looked down at her she had again that poised and eager look, almost of flight, that had brought into Harvey’s love for her just a touch of fear.

VI

Sara Lee Kennedy was up at dawn the next morning.  There was a very serious matter to decide, for Henri’s plan had included only such hand luggage as she herself could carry.

Sara Lee carefully laid out on the bed such articles as she could not possibly do without, and was able to pack into her suitcase less than a fourth of them.  She had fortunately brought a soft wool sweater, which required little room.  Undergarments, several blouses, the sweater and a pair of heavy shoes—­that was her equipment, plus such small toilet outfit as is necessary when a young woman uses no make-up and regards cold cream only as a remedy for chapped hands.