And, after awhile, the word came, clear, startling, snapped out across the void: 

“Unsling that haversack!  Don’t touch the flap!  Take it off, quick!”

The Swiss seemed astounded.  “Quick!” repeated McKay harshly, “or I fire.”

“What!” burst out the man, “you offer violence to a Swiss officer on duty within Swiss territory?”

“I tell you I’ll kill you where you stand if you don’t take off that haversack!”

Suddenly from the scrubby thicket behind the Swiss a man’s left arm shot up at an angle of forty degrees, and the right arm described an arc against the sun.  Something round and black parted from it, lost against the glare of sunrise.

Then in the woods behind McKay something fell heavily, the solid thud obliterated in the shattering roar which followed.

The man in Swiss uniform tore at the flap of his haversack, and he must have jerked loose the plug of a grenade in his desperate haste, for as McKay’s bullet crashed through his face, the contents of his sack exploded with a deafening crash.

At the same instant two more bombs fell among the trees behind McKay, exploding instantly.  Smoke and the thick golden steam from the ravine blotted from his sight the crag opposite.  And now, bending double, McKay ran eastward while behind him the golden dusk of the woods roared and flamed with exploding grenades.

Evelyn Erith stood motionless and deathly white, awaiting him.

“Are you all right, Kay?”

“All right, Yellow-hair.”

He went up to her, shifting his pistol to the other hand, and as he laid his right arm about her shoulders the blaze in his eyes almost dazzled her.

“We trust no living thing on earth, you and I, Yellow-hair....  I believed that man for awhile.  But I tell you whatever is living within this forest is our enemy—­and if any man comes in the shape of my dearest friend I shall kill him before he speaks!”

The man was shaking now; the girl caught his right hand and drew it close around her body—­that once warm and slender body now become so chill and thin under the ragged clothing of a boy.

“Drop your face on my shoulder,” she said.

His wasted cheek seemed feverish, burning against her breast.

“Steady, Kay,” she whispered.

“Right!...  What got me was the thought of you—­there when the grenades fell....  They blew a black pit where your blanket lay!”

He lifted his head and she smiled into the fever-bright eyes set so deeply now in his ravaged visage.  There were words on her lips, trembling to be uttered.  But she dared not believe they would add to his strength if spoken.  He loved her.  She had long known that—­had long understood that loving her had not hardened his capacity for the dogged duty which lay before him.

To win out was a task sufficiently desperate; to win out and bring her through alive was the double task that was slowly, visibly killing this man whose burning, sunken eyes gazed into hers.  She dared not triple that task; the cry in her heart died unuttered, lest he ever waver in duty to his country when in some vital crisis that sacred duty clashed with the obligations that fettered him to a girl who had confessed she loved him.