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 Franz von Kreuzenach started violently, and for a moment or two he was incapable of speech. When he took the letter from Brand his hand trembled.

"You know her?" he said, at last.

"I knew her in old days, and met her in Lille," answered Brand. "She told me of your kindness to her. I promised to thank you when I met you. I do so now."

He held out his hand, and Franz von Kreuzenach grasped it in a hard grip.

"She is well?" he asked, with deep emotion.

"Well and happy," said Brand.

"That is good."

The young German was immensely embarrassed, absurdly self-conscious and shy.

"In Lille," he said, "I had the honour of her friendship."

"She told me," answered Brand. "I saw some of your songs in her room."

"Yes, I sang to her."

Franz von Kreuzenach laughed, awkwardly. Then suddenly a look of something like fear—certainly alarm—changed his expression.

"I must beg of you to keep secret any knowledge of my—my friendship—with that lady. She acted—rashly. If it were known, even by my father, that I did—what I did—my honour, perhaps even my life, would be unsafe. You understand, I am sure."

"Perfectly," said Brand.

"As a German officer," said Franz von Kreuzenach, "I took great risk."

He emphasised his words.

"As a German officer I took liberties with my duty—because of a higher law."

"A higher law than discipline," said Brand. "Perhaps a nobler duty than the code of a German officer."