Back on a rush of memory came his words:  “I know that all Love is eternal, and Death is only an incident in eternity.”

Till that moment they had never recurred to her.  From that moment she carried them perpetually in her heart.

She drew a little nearer.  She bent above him.  And it was to her as if the dead lips spoke:  “Though I shall not be with you, you will know that I am loving you still.  It will be as an Altar Flame that burns for ever.  Believe me, Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love.”

“I know it, I know it,” whispered Chris.

When she stood up again, though her eyes were shining through tears, she was smiling also.

“Your friend and mine, Trevor,” she murmured.  “May I—­may I kiss him just once?  I never have before.”

“Of course you may,” he said.

She bent again, bent till her lips just touched the dead man’s brow.

“I won’t disturb you, preux chevalier,” she whispered.  “Only good-night, dear!  Good-night!”

For a little while she stood looking down upon the dead man’s rest; but at length she turned away, drawing her husband with her, and went to the open window.

Hand in hand they looked out upon a world in which “all things were made new.”  They spoke no word.  They thought the same thoughts together, and no words were needed.

Only when they turned at length from the shimmering sunlight back into the quiet room, their eyes met.  And in the silence Trevor Mordaunt bent with reverence and kissed the living, as she had kissed the dead.

CHAPTER XII

THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!  The procession was passing under the windows.

Bertrand de Montville, the vindicated hero, was being borne to his soldier’s grave on the hill by the fortress.  Soldiers preceded him.  Soldiers followed him.  A mixed crowd of journalists—­men from all parts of Europe—­came after.  And from the window above, his little pal looked down.

Max Wyndham stood beside her, the corners of his mouth drawn down and a very peculiar expression in his green eyes.  He had amazed his French friend by refusing to follow the cortege.  Even Chris did not know why, for he had clothed himself in an impenetrable cloak of reserve since Bertrand’s death, and he was not apparently minded to lift it even for her benefit.

Yet she was glad to have him with her, for Noel had elected to go with Mordaunt; and though she was quite willing to be left alone, she found Max’s presence a help.  She had seen but little of him until the moment that they stood together looking down upon the passing procession.

It was a grey day.  Down on the shore the long waves rolled in to break in wide lines of surf up the rock-strewn beach.  The thunder of their breaking mingled with the roll of muffled drums.  The full honours of a soldier’s funeral were to be accorded to the man who had died before France could make amends.