 CHAPTER XXII of THE YELLOW DOVE by G. GIBS This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Tony Oliva. FROM THE HEIGHTS. Hammersley had him covered, and the general made no move to defend himself. He bent his head and folded his arms, peering into Hammersley's eyes, like a short-sighted man trying to adjust his vision to an unaccustomed task. But his frown relaxed almost immediately, and his lips separated, showing a gleam of teeth. My compliments, hell, Hammersley, he said. You have done well. It pleases me to meet at last. Move your right hand again, the fraction of an inch, and I will shoot excellence, said Hammersley in the sharp quick accents of a resolute man. Von Strumberg only smiled more broadly, but he did not move. He had seen enough of Herr Hammersley to respect his sincerity. I have staked my professional reputation upon your presence elsewhere, Herr Hammersley. Instinct, perhaps, led me here. I do not know what else, but I came alone. I am not armed. Hammersley was in no mood for trifling, and time was flying. Better to shoot the man and be done with it, but he couldn't somehow. Instead he searched him quickly for weapons. You had too late excellence. I am sorry, but I have no time for conversation. You will at least. Let me pay you the compliment of saying that the prussian blood in you has made you the most brilliant Englishman I have ever met. I have no time to match phrases with you. Ah, but you match what is much more important. A genius for dissimulation. Yesterday you disappointed me, Herr Hammersley, with your talk of plans, of fortifications, of Strassburg. I had been hoping that you were playing a deeper game, something that would relieve the flat monotony of my routine. You were to save me from utter boredom. It is true, I had hoped that. I was disappointed when I thought that you were like the others, disappointed. I should have known. And now that I have the papers, what are you going to do about it? Asked Hammersley with a touch of bravado, von Stromburg shrugged. I confess that I am so rapt in admiration of your genius that I am at a loss. I must yield to the inevitable, but I am happy in the knowledge that only a person of the skill of Herr Hammersley could have succeeded in outwitting the head of the secret surface department of the Empire. Enough of this, Hammersley broke in. I should kill you, General von Stromburg, but I won't, if you obey me promptly. Stand aside over there, against the wall. If you move, I'll shoot. I'm going out of here. von Stromburg did as he was bidden, and his long strides and erect carriage had lost none of their dignity. When he reached the wall, he turned with a smile. Then he said, suavely, I fear, Herr Hammersley, that you will not go forth as rapidly as you like. Hammersley only laughed at him, we'll see about that. He took a stride to the canvas curtain and had a quick look outside, and then to the girl. Kräncher, Doris, the compressed air, the button to the left beside the wheel. There was a long pause when Doris reached forward in her seat, a pause filled with meanings for Hammersley, in which his fate and hers was hanging in the balance. von Stromburg seemed to read his thoughts, and the wolfish smile spread again over his face. It is just possible, he said blandly, that someone may have been tinkering with the machinery. There was another long silence, a moment of agony for Hammersley. Yes, I have, roared Hammersley exultantly. For just then there was a violent explosion, deafening in the enclosed space, like the roar of a giant cracker would have been. Another, and then more rapidly another, followed by a number of concussions, like a pack of giant crackers catching intermittently and then in quick succession. General von Stromburg's smile faded, then vanished, in a look of inefficacy and dismay. He was senile. Hammersley's grin derided him. Speech was impossible, but the muzzle of the automatic was as eloquent as before. One more explosion, or six for that matter, would add little to the din. von Stromburg's life hung by a hair at that moment, and he knew it. Still covering his excellency, who was now glancing at the slit in the curtain beside him, Hammersley climbed up to the seat in front of Doris in the cockpit of the machine, and just as he was putting a leg over, his excellency took a quick glance upward, which had in it a world of expression, and bolted. Hammersley's shot must have missed. He looked around at Doris and laughed, and she saw the light of triumph that rode in his eyes. He exhaust was roaring steadily now, but with one hand on the wheel, and in the other his automatic, Hammersley sat motionless, watching the slits in the canvas for the men that he knew must come in a moment. At a gesture of his, Doris sank low in the cockpit, her hands on the wheel, watching too, and ready to do her share as Cyril had directed. One, two minutes passed. She seemed to be counting the seconds. The body of the machine was trembling as though with the excitement of the moment, and the explosions had blended into one continuous roar, Cyril threw the clutch in, and the note lowered as the propellers began to whir. The huge fabric jumped forward, gathering momentum as it went, until by the time it reached the canvas curtain in front of it, it was going as fast as a man would run. The weight of the heavy flap retarded it for a moment, but it went steadily on, and the canvas was pushed outward, then rose. It seemed to Doris like the curtain on a melodrama. Men were running up, shooting as they ran. They clutched at the toggles, and swung off their feet, falling in a heap upon the ground. She saw a man, the only one not in uniform, take hold of the lower plane and try to stop the momentum. It was John Ritcio. She saw his face for a second, dark, handsome, smiling. Cyril rose in his seat, and their weapons streamed fire. Ritcio moved backward with the machine, still clinging to the lower plane, and then disappeared, passing under it just where the blades of the right-hand propeller were. A slight shock, and a shapeless mass went rolling over and over until it brought up motionless against the jam of the door. Two other men, foresters, worn by Ritcio's fate, spring aside with horror in their eyes. Cyril sank lower in her seat, her cheeks bloodless, grasping her wheel with icy hands, filled with horror. Cyril had sunk down in his seat, clutching at the side of the cockpit, his weapon falling from his fingers. With an effort she steadied her hold on the wheel. The canvas curtain had passed over their heads. They were in the open. To the right, coming from the Windenburg Road, a machine filled with men was dashing across the field before them at a diagonal which would intercept them. She heard shots near a tanned. Cyril did not move. She had a glimpse of General von Schrömbögg, who had snatched a pistol from the hand of the nearest soldier and fired. They were moving fast, but the automobile in the field before them seemed to be moving faster, kept in vents and four men. She saw Cyril's hand rise in front of her, pointing to the left to avoid them, but vents came on. The yellow dove was still running on its wheels. She saw the danger. Vence was aiming at a collision. She pulled her wheel toward her instinctively, and the yellow dove rose, skimming the ground. She felt it lifting slowly, now rapidly. The automobile seemed about to strike them. Another jerk on the wheel and the skids of the yellow dove just grazed the windshield of the machine, and a soldier leaped into the air, trying to catch a hold, mist, and tumble to the ground. In the car men were shouting like demons, and a volley of pistol bullets pierced the planes. She felt them strike the armored body, but she sank lower, clutching her wheel. Clear, they must be. A second of agonized suspense, and she saw Cyril turn his head and look down behind them. His face was white, but his eye flashed triumph. His lips moved, but she heard nothing. Safe, they must be. The yellow dove, mounting easily, had cleared the trees at the border of the farm, and before the eyes of the girl stretched only undulating surfaces of gray and green. In front of her, Cyril lay back in his seat. His hands clutched the sides of the cockpit. Oh, God! She had not been sure before what his sudden lassitude had meant. He had been hit. John Ritcio. He turned around and smiled at her, and one hand, stretched before him, pointed up and to the right. Her throat closed, and her heart seemed to stop its beating, and the dove for a moment swung and tossed like a drunken thing. But with an effort she inclined her wheel and met it. Cyril again raised his fingers and pointed upwards, higher. She tipped the wheel further toward her. His gesture was like an appeal to heaven, a symbol of his faith in her, and in the God of both she set her lips and obeyed. Broken and helpless, perhaps dying, he was putting his faith in her. She must not fail him now. She kept her gaze before her over Cyril's head, trying to gain strength for what she had to do, thinking that she was in England at Ashwater Park, and that the wheel she held was that of her own little new port. There seemed to be little difference between them, except that the yellow dove was easier to manage. It responded to the slightest touch, and had a magnificent steadiness that reassured Doris as to her ability to do the thing that was required of her. The mountains had fallen below them, and the horizon had widened until it blurred into the haze of the distance. She looked down on what seemed to her a plain of purple velvet touched with lighter patches of orange and violet. Before her, the sun was setting, blood red, in a sea of amber. She mounted above it into the clear imperian of Azure, higher, higher yet. She felt the exhilaration of large spaces, the joy of conquest over all material things. Death even did not dismay her. Cyril's, her own. She seemed to have crossed at a bound from the realm of substance into that of immateriality. Her soul already sang in accord with the angels. They were mated. She and Cyril mated, and even death should not separate them. Dusk fell slowly below them, like a black giant striding across the face of the earth. But all was still bright and clear about her. The red ball of the sun would not set. She was going upward, upward into the realm of continuous and perfect day. Below her, a thread of silk thrown carelessly upon a purple carpet. The Rhine. She saw Cyril's hand come up and move feebly to the right. She turned slowly and followed its direction. The Rhine. She remembered Cyril's words back there in the woods. She must follow the Rhine to the sea, and then turn to the westward along the coast. She would do it. She must. Cyril was hurt. But perhaps not badly. His gestures reassured her. He moved his hand in a level line in front of him, and she understood. They had mounted high enough. The barograph showed four thousand feet. She brought the wheel up to normal and held it there. The wind burned her cheeks, and she knew from the changes in the river below her that the speed of the yellow dove was terrific. Ninety miles, a hundred, a hundred and twenty, an hour. Perhaps much more. She did not know. The speed got into her blood faster and faster was the song her pulses sung. She was a part of the yellow dove now, and it was a part of herself. Its wings were her wings, and its instinct was in her own fingertips. It fell slowly, a luminous night full of stars. She seemed to be hanging among them, to be one of them, watching the earth pass under her. Two of them gleamed like St. Elmo's lights at the tips of the plains. The sky was clear and bright, of a deep bluish purple, like the sky she remembered high up on the plains of the great west in her own country. The air was bitter cold upon her face, and she blessed Cyril's foresight of the helmet, gloves, and old leather jacket that he had put on her in the hangar. In front of her, Cyril leaned slightly to one side, and his right hand touched a button, throwing an electric light in a hood in front of the wheel upon the face of the compass and barograph. She glanced at them quickly, four thousand feet. The direction north-northwest. She longed to speak to him, and shouted his name. But in the roar of the engines, she could not hear her own voice. He still sat up, the fingers of his right hand moving from time to time, as he gave her the direction. She thanked God for that. He was alive. He would live until they reached depress. He must live. He must. She said her teeth upon the words, and willed it. Praying at last aloud with lips that screamed, yet made no sound. Below her moved the lights of a city. She did not know what it was, Cologne, perhaps? She had passed it yesterday morning in the train with John Ritzeo yesterday. It seemed a year ago, Cologne, then Düsseldorf. The river was not difficult to follow. She lost it once, and then moving at a lower altitude, she found it quickly. But the old terror was gripping her now, Cyril, his fingers no longer moved directing her. He had sunk lower in his seat, and his head had fallen back upon one side. His face upturned to the stars. Was he? She put the thought from her. It was impossible. She had prayed. Not that. He had only fainted from pain, from sickness. Not dead. She would not, could not believe it. She longed to reach forward, to let him feel her hand upon his neck, that he might know her pity and her pain. It almost seemed better that death should come to them both now than that he should die, and not know the comforting touch of her hand. She leaned forward, and one hand left the wheel. But she lost her touch of the air, and the planes tipped drunkenly, threatening the destruction she courted. The madness passed, and with its passing came a calm, ice cold. She was no longer a sentient being. She was merely an instinct, with wings, flying as the eagle flies, straight for its goal. She kept her glance upon the compass, and followed the river, north, north-west. The silver thread had become a ribbon now, reflecting the starlight. She passed over other towns. She could see their lights. But her gaze was fixed most often on the distant horizon, where after a while she would find the sea. A yellowish light, painting the underside of the plane above her head, bewildered her. She could not understand. It was like a reflection of a candle inside a tent. Low as it was, it blinded her eyes, accustomed to the soft light of the stars. There was a crash nearby. In the very air beside her it seemed a blinding flash of light, and the yellow dove toppled sideways. Instinctively she caught it, turning as she went and rose higher, higher, as a bird flies at the sound of a shot below. She knew now what it meant, a searchlight. They were firing at her with the high-angle guns. She had come fast, but the wire from Windenberg had been faster. She put the light behind her, and long arms of light still groped for her. But she rose still higher, five, six thousand feet, her barograph told her. Below, to her right, a small thing, shaped like a dragonfly, was spitting fire. To her left another, but she sank lower in her seat, laughing at them. Something of Cyril's joyous bravado possessed her. She defied them, rising far above them, higher, seven thousand feet, eight, until she could see them no more. North, northwest, she found her course again, and flew on into the night. She had lost the river, but that did not matter now. She knew that after a time, an hour, or more, she must come to the sea, and when all signs of danger were gone, she went down again, where she couldn't more plainly see the earth. The moon had come up, and bathed the scene below with its soft light. And far ahead of her, she saw irregular streaks of pale gray against long lines of purplish black. The sea? She had lost all idea of time and distance. How far the sea was from Windenberg she did not know. And if she had known it, the passage of time was a blank to her, a continuous roar, the music of the spheres, which took no thought of time or space. The flight had lasted but a minute, and an eternity. To her left the gray streaks were nearer, west by north, her compass said, and she steered for them. Soon she made out distinctly contours of large masses of gray against the black, water and land. The air was milder, and she sniffed the salt. She went down to three thousand feet to get her bearings ever watchful for the dragonflies, and ready to soar again at the first flash of a searchlight. She had already learned to avoid the plains where the lights were grouped, the colonies of glowworms that here meant danger. Had she crossed the Belgian line, she had been to Antwerp, to Brussels, and tried to remember what they had looked like on the map. There was water near Antwerp, she remembered that, inland bodies of water which led to the sea. Now she could see beyond the bodies of inland water to a wide expanse of gray beyond the dark, uninterrupted gray, the ocean. She bore to her left until her course was due west. A searchlight flashed upon her for a second and was gone. By the way the contours were changing, she knew that her speed was terrific and slowly, but more and more certainly, as she near the sea, a problem presented itself. Her goal, where was it, and how to find it in the dark, Cyril had said that they must land back of Ypres, but where was Ypres, beyond Austin, and inland, thirty, forty miles. She knew that much from the war maps that she had poured over with her father, but how to find it. She was over the sea now. The yellow dove felt a new breeze, and the wheel tugged under her hand, but the machine lifted at the touch and wheeled like a gall to speed down the coast, Austin'd, the Cursale, if she could get a side of it. It was dangerous, but she must go lower, three, two hundred feet from the sea, where she might make out familiar profiles against the sky. The waves rose to meet her, reflecting the starlight, and just below her, to the left, the surf rolled in lines of white upon the beach, dunes, dunes interminably, with here and there a collection of huts, a dark shape moved in the water ahead of her, another, warships, destroyers. She wheeled out to sea, and flew above them, but before they had time even to get their searchlights ranged upon her, the danger was passed. She would win now, the yellow dove was invincible, a dark irregular mass ahead of her rose above the monotony of dunes, buildings, and a bulk she seemed to recognize, a round dome iridescent like a soap bubble in the moonlight, the Cursale, Austin'd. She was nearing her destination, the end of the German lines. Friends were near, Belgians, French, and English, twenty, thirty miles beyond Austin'd, and then inland, somewhere back of the press, she would find the English. The English lines were thirty or forty miles long. She remembered, it should not be difficult to find them. She must be sure to go far enough, but not too far, not to where the French army joined the British forces. Cyril's papers must go to the English, to General French himself. He had said so. She had no way of judging distance, except by the passage of the minutes. At the speed she was flying, she must turn inland in fifteen minutes. She had no watch, and she tried counting the seconds. She had counted sixty, four times. When a battery, hidden among the dunes, along the shore opened fire on her. She was half a mile from shore, flying low, but the flash of light startled her, and the shell burst beyond. She rose quickly, moving further out to sea, frightened, but still self-possessed. It would not do to fail now, with a goal in sight. The compass gave her course south-west by west. She counted again, guessing at the time she had lost, and then, making a wide spiral out to sea, and rising to three thousand feet, she drove the yellow dove inland. Searchlights were turned on her, and shots fired, but she went higher, trying to make out if she could the lines of the opposing armies. Red and yellow lights were displayed below to her left, and far to her right were tiny clusters of lights, but there seemed to be no order in their arrangement, no lines that she could distinguish, even at this height. Her keen eyes, now enured to the darkness, made out a monoplane against the starlight ahead of her, but she swerved to the right, the greater power of the yellow dove enabling her to rise and elude it. She flew for what seemed ten or fifteen minutes, going steadily to the south and west, when she drove for a spot where there were no lights, and then shut off the throttle and dove. She knew that this was perhaps her greatest moment of her great adventure, a landing place in the dark, in a country she did not know, where a church steeple, a telegraph wire, the limb of a tree, would bring her and her precious freight to disaster. With a sudden shutting off of the power, a silence that bewildered her, a silence broken only by the whir of the wind against the planes, her ears ached from the change of pressure in her swift descent. She eased her wheel back gently, trying to make out objects below, dart patches, woods to be avoided, the roof of a house, another, lights here and there, small, obscure, which she had not seen. She avoided them all, planing down in a spiral toward what seemed to be unobstructed space. She breathed a prayer as the earth came up to meet her, death, whatever came, Cyril too. She stared straight before her, feeling out the wind pressure on the planes, gliding as near the horizontal as she dared. An open field! Thank God! A gentle shock and the springs responded. The yellow dove rebounded slightly and ran along the ground smoothly upon its wheels. Then stopped. She tried to get up, but could not. Her hands seemed fastened to the wheel. She heard the sound of men's voices shouting and saw lights, but she could not seem to make a sound. She was shivering violently, also laughing a little. She had no sense of being cold. She seemed very weak somehow and very helpless, and then, just as the lights grew brighter, they went out. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of the Yellow Dove by George Gibbs. A woman! She heard a man's voice say at her ear. She was lying upon the ground, and strange faces were bending over her, while I'm damned English. On the other, she heard again, dead as an errand, door is set up, staring at them wildly. Why, there's a flutter here yet. She heard the other man say, Come, Bill, let's have him over to the house. Doris managed to find a whisper. A surgeon, for him, she said to the man supporting her, He will not die, he is only wounded. It was her obsession, it would not leave her. She saw them carrying Cyril toward the house, and when they wanted to take her to, she said that she would walk. Though deathly weak, she managed to reach the house where they had carried Cyril. They gave her a drink of something, and she revived. It was a Red Cross station, they told her, and the doctor would be here in a moment. But in the meanwhile, First Aid was administered, and at her place at his bedside, she saw Cyril struggling faintly back to life. He will not die. She repeated quietly, when the surgeon had examined him gravely. I hope not, but he's bled a good deal, we'll see. They cut away his coat, and wanted to send her away, but she pleaded to remain, and in a moment she heard Cyril's voice, whispering hoarsely, papers, coat pocket, Sir John French. All right, said the surgeon cheerfully, we'll see to that. Doris, here's Cyril, rip and fine of you, no mistake, old girl. His whisper trailed off into silence, and at the surgeon's orders they led her away from his cot. But she would not leave the room until she got the papers out of the pocket of his jacket. An orderly led her to a young officer with his arm in a sling, who sat at a table in another part of the building. He listened to her story attentively, and read the documents carefully. His lips as he read, emitting a thin whistle, he glanced at his watch, and for a moment left the room. It is arranged, you shall go, he said when he came back. A machine will be here in a moment. He paused, examining her doubtfully. She was spattered with grease and oil, but the pallor of her face beneath its grime showed that her strength was near its end. Wouldn't you trust those dispatches to me? It's ten miles to the headquarters in rough. No, no, I will go, I promised. But he ordered some hot coffee and bread, and thus fortified when the motor came around she was driven upon her way. The young officer sat beside her, eagerly listening, while she gave him a brief outline of their adventures. Amazing, he said from time to time. Most amazing. And then as she went on he said quietly, You're going on your nerve, I think. Better save your strength until we get to headquarters. It isn't far now. She tried to keep silent, but it seemed as though she must go on talking. That seemed to give her strength to complete her task, for when she sank back in her seat and tried to relax, she only grew weak, thinking of Cyril, lying back there, hovering between life and death. And then she heard herself saying aloud, He will not die. He has gone through too much to die now. The man beside her glanced down at her and smiled gently. No, he isn't going to die. Let's don't kill nowadays, unless they kill at once. Yes. Yes. She assented. That's it. If he had been going to die, he would have been dead now, wouldn't he? She laid her hand eagerly on the young officer's arm, and he put his hand over hers. Palmerston is the best surgeon along this part of the line. He'll pull him through. Don't you worry. I won't. I'll try not to. You're awfully kind. Would you mind telling me your name? Jackson. Second Lester Dragoons. And yours? Mathur. Doris Mathur. I... I don't want to forget your name. You've been very good to understand everything so perfectly. Oh, it's nothing. There are reasons I'm on the headquarters staff, you know. That was one reason, but another one was that there was a girl at home just as much worried over his wound as Miss Mathur was over Hammersley's. They passed from the rough roads between gates into a smoother one which was bordered with poplars. At the end, in front of her, she saw lights and reached a doorway where an orderly opened the door of the machine and saluted her companion. Their arrival, it seemed, was expected. Then Jackson took her by the arm and led her indoors, for her courage or her nerves seemed to be failing her again. Down a quiet hall into a room where an officer with a gray mustache set before a lighted lamp at a table covered with papers. She recognized him at once from the many portraits that it appeared in the weekly papers. He spoke to her and she tried to reply, but she could not. She seemed only to have strength enough to thrust the papers forward into his hand when her knees gave way under her and she sank in a heap upon the floor. Gentle hands lifted her and laid her upon a couch in the corner of the room. She tried to get up, but could not. She heard the voices of the officers in the room as from a great distance. And then a woman came and two men carried her upstairs and put her to bed. She realized that she was talking incoherently of Cyril, of the yellow dove. They gave her something to drink and her nerves grew mysteriously quiet. She seemed to be sailing smoothly through the air, higher, higher. Cyril's fingers were pointing upward. She was tipping the wheel toward her, ever toward her, and they rose higher. They had reached the region of continuous and perfect day. Cyril turned his head and looked at her, and then he smiled. It was broad daylight when she awoke, for the sunshine was streaming in at the window. A woman sat near her, knitting. She was an old woman of many wrinkles, kindly wrinkles which seemed to vie with one another to express placidity. As Doris rose in her bed, the old woman rose too, and came forward briskly speaking in French. Ah, mademoiselle is awake. Bon, she is feeling better? Yes, better, but a little tired. And then as she realized where she was, could you tell me, General French, could I see him? All is well, mademoiselle. Monsieur le Général, he is not here now, but he will be back after a while. He would see you, then, but first it is proper that you have breakfast and a bath. Mademoiselle needs a bath, I think. Doris glanced at her hand, which lay upon the white coverlet. It was black. Yes, I will bathe. But first, will you tell me the old woman's smile as she interrupted. I was to tell you that Monsieur Yonder is better. That is what mademoiselle wished to know. Is it not? Doris sank back upon her pillow in a silence which gave the full measure of her joy. Cyril would recover. She had been sure of it. She had told them last night, God was good. The news gave her strength, and the coffee and eggs which were brought revived her rapidly. Her nerves still trembled in memory of what they had passed through, but when she was bathed and dressed in clean linen garments, much too large for her, a surgeon brought her medicine, and what was better than medicine, news that Cyril was conscious and was asking for her. But they would not let her go to him, to-morrow, perhaps. Meanwhile, the doctor would be glad to take a message. Doris colored gently. The message that she would have liked to send was not to be transmitted by this means. Tell him, she said at last quietly, that I am well, and that I will see him when I have permission to do so. The officer smiled, gave some directions to the old woman, and went out. It was not until late in the afternoon, when dressed in her own garments, which had been carefully cleansed and brushed by her nurse, that she was admitted to the office of the field-martial. She was shown into his room and degraded her with unmistakable cordiality, offering her the chair next to his own, and congratulating her warmly upon the success of her achievement and Cyril's. You know, he asked quietly, the contents of these documents? Yes, their importance made it necessary that I should. Then, of course, you realize the necessity for the utmost secrecy? I do. The general smiled at her and brought forward a copy of a recent issue of the London Times. Did you know that for the last three days, England has actually stopped criticizing me to talk about you? About me? She asked. Yes. Read, he said smiling, and she took the paper from him, skimming the headings of a news item he pointed out to her. Miss Mather's still missing, mysterious disappearance still unaccounted for, Lady Heathcote tells strange story, John Rizzio, the famous collector, a German spy, and then in the news item below, Alison Mather of Ashwater Park, believing that his daughter is still alive, today offered a reward of 5,000 pounds to anyone. She stopped reading, and put the paper down. Poor Daddy, she whispered, oh, Sir John, will you let him know? I have already done so, child, he knows that you are safe. And then with a laugh, the 5,000 pounds, I think, are mine, I need a new hospital corps. Oh, he'll give it, I'm sure. You promise? Yes. He took her hand and rose in the act of dismissal. We have supple at six, I hope you will be able to join us. But General, she paused at the door. He smiled at her softly, if it all goes well, you shall see him tomorrow. She colored prettily, everyone seemed to know, but she didn't care. The world, in spite of its terrors, was a garden of roses to Doris. She did not see Cyril the next day or the one following. His temperature had risen, and while the danger of a relapse was not acute, they thought it safer that she should be kept away. She had worried, fearing the worst, that the frankness of the head surgeon reassured her. The bullet had drilled through him, just scraping the lung. He would recover. But why take a chance of complication when all was going well? There was no reply to that, so Doris waited at headquarters, thankful and trying to be patient, sending two penciled scrolls which were delivered to the wounded man. It was not until three days later that she received word that she would be permitted to see him. His cot had been carried into a small room at the front of the building, and she entered it timidly, the nurse with a smile and a glance at her watch, both of which were eloquent, withdrawing. He was propped up on pillows, and though pale from the loss of blood, greeted her with his old careless smile. She sank into the chair by the side of the bed and caught his hand to her lips. Oh, Cyril, she murmured, Cyril, I'm so glad, but I knew you wouldn't die. You couldn't, after getting safely through everything else? Die? Well, hardly. I'm right, as rain, jolly clothes shooting that of Ritioso. Pity had to go that way. She hit her face in her hands. Don't. Let's forget him, and then have you suffered much? No. The belly thing burns a bit now and then, but the worst of it is they won't let it chip smoke. She laughed, and he caught her hand closer. How did you do it, Doris? How did you? He questioned. I had to, Cyril. She said, it wasn't anything except knowing where to come down. That bothered me. I guessed at a press. The rest was luck. More than luck, old girl. Just courage and intelligence. I felt myself failing up there, but I saw you knew your way about. And then I seemed to go to sleep. Silly of me, wasn't it? Silly? You fainted, Cyril. Rotten time to faint. You might have died up there. Once I thought you had died. Oh, that dreadful moment. I wanted to go, too. With you. I was a little mad, I think. I wanted to take you in my arms and go with you. Down, down. My hands even let the wheel, the yellow dove toppled, but I caught her. Poor child. After that, I seemed to grow all cold with reason and skill. I forgot you. I looked beyond over your poor head. I had to succeed, Cyril. That was all. His hand pressed hers tenderly. You're the only girl in the world who could do it. I'm glad. Proud. He broke off. My word, Doris. There's no use trying to tell you what I think of you. I'm no good at that sort of thing. I understand. You're just yourself. That's enough for me. You're a trump up there in the Thorvault to stay with poor old Udo, but I had to go. It was the only way I never thought we'd make it. But we did. You did. It was the dove, Doris. The good old dove is its sheer ripper. I never had a fear. Once she rose, how did you happen? He laughed. It was to be a surprise. I'd been working on her for a year, trying her out on the moors. Nobody knew until the war came. And then I told Udo, oh, told Von Stromberg. I tried a flight to Windenberg and made it comfortably. Lovely easy thing. I stayed at Windenberg in October, flying over the English lines and dropping bombs. That was where you were. But I never hit anything. When do, you know? Then when I came back, I told the War Office. They sent me for the papers. You know the rest. Oh, Cyril, I'm so glad it's over. You'll go to England now and rest for a while. And then, will you marry me, Doris, soon? Yes. She said softly, whenever you want me. Here, now, but Cyril. There's a parson chap about here somewhere, a zone browsing in here the other day. Isn't it a little? Say you will. There's a deer. Yes, if you wish it, but... What? Clothes. Nonsense. You're jolly handsome in those tugs. Handsome, no, and... He repeated, met him at Tomal Doris. There's a deer. She leaned her face down upon his hand. We're already married, Cyril. Up there, I felt it. Even death couldn't have separated us. Thank God. Kiss me, Doris. She obeyed. I'll see Jackson, he whispered. He'll manage it. The source will chap Jackson. He'll get us a chaplain like pulling a rabbit out of a hat. She laughed. I don't suppose I'd ever have known you, Cyril, over there in England. You always did wonderful things carelessly, Cyril. But not this wonderful thing, and he kissed her. It is a wonderful thing, she whispered. So wonderful that I wonder if it can be true. I'll prove it to you. But she had straightened and kissed his hand. No more now. I mustn't stay. I hear them in the hall. Tomorrow, he asked, yes. Jackson? Yes. The nurse knocked discreetly and entered. Five minutes. I'm sorry. So am I, said Hammersley with a sigh. Three weeks later, they stood side by side at the rail of the Channel Boat on the way to Ashwater Park for the parental blessing. The shores of France were already purple in the distance. They had looked upon death with eyes that did not fear, but the sight of it together had made the bond of their fealty and tenderness the stronger. There was a sadness in his look, and she knew instinctively of what he was thinking. Germany, Cyril, she said aloud, I love it because a part of it is you, but I love England more because it is you. Hammersley watched the receding shores beyond the vessel's wake, her hand in his. There follow in false gods' doors, gods of steel and brass. They must fall, Cyril. They will. And then, but you can't help admiring the beggars. Poor old Udo, I think about him, Cyril. Do you think he got away? Well, rather, I cut his bones with a hunting knife before we went down. She looked up into his face in amazement. You dare do that? He laughed. You wouldn't have let him be more generous than me. And he let us go. He didn't think we could go. He left things to destiny. Good old Udo, she repeated, and then dreamily, destiny, you were not meant to die, Cyril. Not yet, he said slowly, but I must go back over there, Doris. She shivered a little and drew closer to him. Yes, I know, she said, but you've earned. I couldn't ever earn what I've got. He broke in quickly, nor I. And not much of a chap at pretty speeches and all that sort of thing, but you're a rare one. You know, the rummy is sort of a rare one. The kind of chap dreams about, but never gets. And yet, I've got you. Oh, hang it, old Doris. He broke off helplessly, you know. She smiled at him and slipped her arm through his. Yes, I know, she said, good old Doris. He muttered, Sileas, aren't I? But she wouldn't admit that. End of chapter 23, End of the Yellow Dove by George Gibbs.