as he had taken her from a sailor's arms and she, looking up at him, had tried so bravely and defiantly to deny what her cries had just confessed to all the ship—that she was his; she had gone into the sea for him. He saw and heard and felt her hands upon him again as he lay helpless under the wreck of his airplane and she worked beside him, coolly and well, though machine-gun bullets were striking all about her; and she had freed him. The sensation of their ride together returned while he had been almost helpless in the seat of the truck watching her drive and listening while she talked to him of another man whom she had liked—the English officer, who had been killed, "1583."
As Gerry had envied that other man his comradeship with this girl, now jealousy rose for the man who, for the wanton moments of his tragic mistake, had possessed himself of her. She had not wished it; she had submitted to his arms, to his kisses only perforce. She had said, indeed, that she had not quite succeeded in submitting; and Gerry found himself rejoicing in that. But another man had held her; another had kissed her in full passion; and Gerry was dazed to find now how he felt at that.
He had known that she had been his almost from the first; but he had not known that he had wanted her his until he had had to think of her as having been someone else's.
He gazed down at her now, little, sweet, more beautiful than she had ever seemed to him before, and alone in danger; and his arms hungered to hold her; his face burned with blood running hot to press warm lips against hers. He wanted to feel with her all that any other man
