The Gentle Captive
(1972)*
Tom Godwin

	From where he sat at the table, which he used as a desk in the little house that was temporary field quarters, he could look down the grassy slope and see the remains of what had been a Lowland outpost the day before. Some of the wrecked buildings still smoldered, the smoke hanging like a pall over the outpost site.

	He returned his attention to the map before him, where the lines representing the advance of his Highland forces had been moving southward in exact accordance with the conquest plans.

	"General Darrel, may I interrupt you?"

	He looked up. It was young Lieutenant Daley, one of his minor aides. "What is it?" he asked.

	"Another Lowlander was found a few hours ago, sir, trapped under a collapsed building but not hurt."

	"Well, put him with the other prisoners. Don't bother me with such trivial things."

	"All the other prisoners were shot this afternoon for ... trying to escape. This lowlander is a little girl whose parents were killed in the attack."

	"A girl—what was she doing here?" Anyway, have her kept some place where she won't be underfoot."

	"I think she suspects what happened to the other Lowlanders, sir. She insists on seeing you—she's waiting outside, now."

	"Listen, Daley, I have more important things to do than be interviewed by little girls!"

	Daley wet his lips nervously, but there was a certain stubbornness on his face. "Sir, there is something about this girl—the way she looks at you—please give her just a minute."

	He hesitated, then said shortly, "All right—send her in. Then get back to your own duties."

	"Thank you, sir." Daley saluted and left.

	Darrel turned back to the map. Once the continent of Dunbar had been one nation; long ago, when Centauri IV was first colonized by Earthmen. Then the faster-than-light ship's drive had been developed and Centauri IV became a backwash planet—a forgotten world. No FTL ships ever stopped here—they were all going on to far richer worlds than Centauri IV, with its once inhabitable continent, could ever be.

	As the generations passed, the Dunbar Nation separated into two nations: the Highland Nation in the cold, harsh north, and the Lowland Nation in the warm, productive south. Then there had been raids in the Lowlands by the Highlanders, and, eventually, war.

	The Lowlanders had the resources but not the men. They were a race of merchants, farmers, musicians, poets ... The Highlanders did not have great resources but they had the hard, tough fighting men ...

	"Sir?"

	It was the voice of a child. He looked up from the map and saw her standing before him.

	She was perhaps twelve years old—a little ragamuffin with dark, tousled hair, dried tearstains on her dirty cheeks, her skirt and blouse muddy and torn, red scratches on her bare legs and feet. But she stood as tall as she could before him, with a grave dignity, and in her heart-shaped face were the largest, bluest eyes he had ever seen. They were looking unwaveringly into his, with no given permission to speak to you."

	"How old are you?" he asked.

	"I'll be thirteen day after tomorrow."

	"What were you doing in a military outpost?"

	"My father was the doctor here. Mama and I drove up from Greendale to visit him for a few hours. Nobody knew the Highland soldiers were so close."

	"They usually don't. What did you want to see me about?"

	"Your officers wouldn't answer the two questions I had, so I wanted to ask them of you."

	... so I wanted to ask them of you ... of the commander in chief of all the Highland forces; she, a mussed, scratched and dirty-faced little Lowland girl ...

	"What were the questions?"

	"What became of the other Lowland prisoners? The guards were back in just a few minutes without them."

	"They were shot for trying to escape, I was told."

	"Oh!"

	It was a little gasp of complete comprehension and for a moment her eyes were very wide—for a moment she was just a frightened little girl. Then she drew a deep breath and tried hard to regain her composure. She swallowed and said, "I see—they were killed to get them out of the way, weren't they?"

	"What was the other question?"

	"It doesn't matter, anymore. I just wanted to know if I could be an exchange prisoner."

	She hesitated, then spoke again, in a tone that had only the slightest quiver to it:

	"Will they kill me today or tomorrow?"

	It gave him a strange uneasy feeling to see her stand there and face him like a Highland soldier as she waited for her death sentence. "Aren't you afraid to die?" he asked.

	"No, sir. I want to live, but when they kill me, I won't be afraid."

	"Why not?"

	"Because my Lord Jesus has said, He that believes in me has everlasting life."

	He asked, curiously, "Would you still believe that when you face the firing squad?"

	"I would believe all the more."

	He saw the communicator on the table was flashing a white light, which meant that someone among his general staff wanted to speak to him.

	"Highlanders don't kill women and children," he said to her. "And, by the way, I'm not the one who ordered those prisoners shot."

	"I'm glad, sir, that you weren't the one cruel enough to ..."

	"Everything in war is cruel. Now, get on outside and stay out."

	She left and he switched on the communicator. It was his second in command, General Horton.

	"The Lowlanders are walking like sheep into our trap," Horton said. "They're massing in Sector Ten and bringing up their reserves, as we anticipated ..."

	The western sky was bright with the afterglow of sunset, when his work for the day was done and he went outside. It was early spring, and mingling with the odor of burning from what had been the Lowland outpost was the sweet scent of flowers. He was vaguely aware of it as he walked, his boots almost soundless in the grass, his mind preoccupied with the forthcoming all-out assault against the Lowland forces. The artillery, tanks and infantry coming down from the north would continue to move southward only during the night, laying camouflaged in the forests during the day in case one of the few observation planes the Lowlanders possessed got past the few fighter planes the Highlanders possessed ...

	He was almost upon her before he saw her—the Lowland girl. He had forgotten all about her.

	She was kneeling, her head bowed. Her eyes were shut and her lips were moving soundlessly. He saw the bright silver of fresh tears on her cheeks. She became aware of his presence and turned quickly toward him. She pulled a dirty handkerchief from her blouse pocket, hastily wiped away the tears, then stood up to face him questioningly.

	"I forgot to tell anyone to take charge of you," he said. "When did you last have anything to eat?"

	"It was before the attack. But I'm not hungry—I'm just awfully thirsty."

	"Come with me," he said.

	She followed him as he went toward the nearby encampment: a collection of tents where the enlisted men were quartered. On the slope above the tents was a large house—the temporary general headquarters. Halfway to the mess tent he met a sergeant and he said, "Have this girl given something to eat and drink. Then have a pup tent set up for her and see that she has some means of washing up."

	He turned back, to continue his walk to the top of the gentle slope from where he could look southward to the battle lines. He stopped when he reached a vantage point. The line was now six kilometers away and its advance had slowed from the first lightning thrust to a slow crawl. The mutter of the artillery sounded desultory—almost ineffectual. That was what he wanted the Lowland command to think—that the force of the Highland attack was already spent. Let them think that, while under cover of darkness, the Highland might rolled down from the north to be the jaws of a trap that would break the back of the Lowland nation ...

	He was at the table the next morning, reviewing a series of reports, when he heard the soft whisper of bare feet coming into the room. It was the Lowland girl, again.

	He frowned. "What are you doing, running around at will like that?"

	"I'm sorry, sir, but it's something important."

	The heart-shaped face was scrubbed and clean. He saw—now that he could really see it for the first time—that it was an appealingly pretty face. She had scrubbed herself all over and had washed and finger-combed her hair. And she had somehow managed to wash her clothes. They still clung damply to her but they were spotlessly clean and she had laced the torn places together with blades of the tough twine-grass that grew in the camp area.

	"My guard is waiting outside," she said. "I told him I wanted to see you privately."

	He made a mental note to order the guard assigned to fatigue duty and said, "What did you want to see me about?"

	"I ... well ..." Her composure suddenly failed her. She flushed and looked down at the floor. "It—the soldiers' latrine—it's not a bathroom for a girl ..."

	He sighed. He had forgotten all about that. "I see. Go down the hall and on the left."

	"Thank you, sir," she said, and hurried away.

	At noon, when his orderly brought him his lunch, he realized that it was uncomfortably warm in the house, even with all the doors and windows open. He turned to the window that faced the camp area and saw the girl sitting just within the doorway of her pup tent, wiping her face with a new clean handkerchief. It would be miserable in the shade of the hot canvas—and even more miserable out in the sun ...

	He spoke to his orderly. "Tell the girl's guard to let her stay in the shade of the trees out in front, here."

	He spent the afternoon conferring with the general staff and observing, from a plane, the terrain where the trap would be sprung. The sun was down when he returned.

	As was his usual custom, he ate in his own quarters. Full darkness came shortly afterward and with it a quiet that was broken only by the distant chugging of the portable generating plant. He thought of the girl, who would now have nothing to do but lie in the darkness on her army cot for all the long hours until morning. Lie there alone, and remember ... He summoned his orderly and said to him:

	"That's no place for a little girl to have to stay—in a pup tent alongside the soldiers' tents."

	"Yes, sir, but where can we put her? Not a building was left but this one and the house where General Horton and the others are."

	"There's a spare bedroom here. Have her brought over."

	"Yes, sir."

	Her guard brought her in a few minutes later. There was question on her face.

	"You'll stay here tonight," he said to her, and then to the guard, "You can go back to your own quarters."

	When the guard was gone, the girl asked, "Do you mean you trust me without a guard, sir?"

	"Any time I need a guard to protect me from a twelve-year-old girl, I'll seek refuge in some old lady's home."

	He belatedly wondered why he had let them keep a guard over her in the first place. There was no place to which she could escape, and the camp itself was always under guard. As usual, his mind had been preoccupied with battle plans ...

	"If you had asked me," she said, "I would have given my word of honor not to do anything except what I was told to do."

	"Your bedroom is down the hall," he said. "The second door on the right."

	"Thank you."

	But she remained standing before him, instead of leaving, and he said, "Well?"

	"Do I have to go to bed now?"

	"Would you like to stay up a little while?"

	"The guard said it was against regulations for him to talk to a prisoner and sometimes I get so lonesome since ... since ..."

	He thought for a moment that she was going to cry again.

	"Sit down in that chair over there," he said.

	She did so and he asked, "What's your name?"

	"Lenore, Lenore Hastings, sir."

	"Lenore? That's an unusual name."

	"It's from an old, old Earth poem. Part of it goes, the best I can remember:

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—
	vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—
	sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden
	whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore."

There was a little silence when she had finished. He felt a faint stirring of emotion—the impractical sympathy that a soldier could not afford. It was merely a lonely poem recited by a lonely child ...

	"I like to try to write poetry," she said. "I'm not very good at it. Mama was, though."

	"Do you have other relatives in the Lowlands?"

	"No, sir. There was just Daddy and Mama and me. But I had a lot of friends."

	"Why do you sit here and talk with me," he asked, "when you have every reason to hate me?"

	"I hate no one, sir. Sometimes a person can be changed by loving him but never by hating him."

	"Do you mean that I should be changed?"

	She answered with disturbing frankness; "Yes, sir."

	"In what way?"

	"To make you understand that you are doing wrong when you destroy me country and kill my people." Her blue eyes were looking straight and unafraid into his again. "We have never harmed you or invaded your country, have we?"

	Well ... of course not. The Lowlanders were not a military race ... but he did not care to argue with a child. "Let's change the subject," he said. "Let's talk about—kittens, say. Little girls are supposed to like kittens, aren't they?"

	"Oh, yes, sir. I loved my Tiger Baby so much—his eyes were like gold and he used to sleep by my pillow ..."

	It was an hour later that he told that he told he it was time for bed. She got up obediently, turned at the door to say, "Good night, sir," then he heard her bare feet go down the hall.

	He sat for a while, wondering why listening to a little girl talk to him about things that did not really interest him should have been pleasantly relaxing, and wondering where he might find some shoes for her ...

	When he got up the next morning she was already in his makeshift office, busily washing the windows.

	"I didn't think you would mind, sir," she said. "Don't they look a lot better? Then I'm going to fix the curtains ..." Her words trailed off as she saw the expression on her face.

	He wanted to tell her that she had done a good job, but in the cold light of day he could see how dangerously close he had come to feeling sympathy for her the night before. He would see to it that she was sheltered and fed; he would go no further than that. "I'll have my orderly detail someone to finish," he said, his voice sounding curt.

	"Yes, sir," she said in a small voice, folding the washcloth. "I'm sorry."

	The breakfast trays he had already ordered were brought in and set on the table. She came over to the table, uncertainly.

	"Take you breakfast to your room," he said.

	"Yes, sir," she answered, in the same small voice, and left with the tray.

	He summoned his orderly and gave him some instructions for the day. When he had finished breakfast he called to the girl: "Lenore." She came at once, carrying her tray. He saw that she had hardly touched the food. "I'll be gone most of the day," he said. "You can stay out there in the shade of the trees."

	"Yes, sir." And then hesitantly, "Could I ... would you care if I had a little writing paper and a pencil?"

	"What for?"

	"The days are so long ... and there's something I want to try to write."

	He handed her a notebook and pencil from the table. 

	"Thank you, sir," she said, and left with her breakfast tray and writing supplies.

	Captain Chavez was waiting at the nearby airstrip, the plane warmed-up and ready. They flew from one end to the other of the long battle line and he saw, off in the distance, the dust made by the Lowland troops as they marched toward the Highland trap. They flew over the camouflaged artillery tanks and troop trucks that were waiting to make the final dash to the front lines as soon as darkness came. There were a few supply trucks to be seen on the roads coming down from the Highlands, but that was all. To any Lowland observer, the Highlanders would appear to be doing nothing.

	Clouds, which had been gathering during the day, were thicker yet when the plane landed back at the airstrip. The sun was setting behind a bank of clouds, making them glow like hot coals, but there was nothing warm about the damp, chilly wind that struck him when he got out of the plane. It would rain before the night was over.

	A staff car took him to general headquarters where General Horton said: The Lowland command asked again for a truce and a discussion regarding a peaceable end to the war." Horton smiled a little, as though the thought amused him.

	"Tell them the terms remain the same," Darrel said. "Unconditional surrender."

	"An enemy observation plane managed a quick circle over this area today," Colonel Helwig said. "There is a remote possibility that the Lowlanders might suspect this to be our headquarters."

	Darrel considered the situation. The enemy would know the exact location of what had been their own outpost, of course, and if they had any artillery pieces within range, the target could be zeroed in by instruments alone. Then he shrugged and said, "Well, we can't run like rabbits because of a possibility. We'll all be out of her by morning, anyway."

	A few more points were discussed, then he went to go to his own quarters.

	He found her crouched on the leeward side of a tree, close against it, shivering as the wind whipped at her thin, tattered blouse.

	"For goodness sake, Lenore!" he said. "Are you trying to catch pneumonia? Get on inside!"

	"You told me to stay outside."

	"I didn't know it was going to turn cold. Now, come one." They went inside and he switched on the light. "Sit down," he said "I'll order us something to eat, and a hot drink for you."

	"Your orderly is gone, sir," she said. "They took him away in a car. I heard somebody say he thought it was acute appendicitis."

	He wondered why no one had mentioned it. But then, with the attack only hours away, everyone's mind was on the forthcoming battle.

	She sat with her hands folded in her lap. Something about it bothered him, then he remembered.

	"The notebook—what did you do with it?"

	"They took it away from me, sir."

	"Who?"

	"A soldier from the house where the officers stay."

	He turned to the communicator and said, "Give me General Horton."

	A minute later Horton said, "Yes?"

	"I understand the little girl's notebook was confiscated."

	"Ah ... yes, I told Captain Zimmerman to send for it and have a look at it. After all, she is in a position to gather a great deal of information to value to the enemy."

	"And just how, he asked, a little coldly, "would she transmit this information, even if she did gather it? Have the notebook sent back over here. And while you're at it, have two dinners and a hot drink sent over."

	"Ah ... yes, sir."

	Darrel smiled inwardly. Horton had sounded a little miffed.

	A few minutes later a soldier brought in the dinner trays and the notebook. Darrel picked up the notebook when the soldier was gone, aware of the girl watching him intently.

	There were some pencil drawings of the distant mountains, amateurish but showing potential talent. There was a short passage:

The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb,
And the leopard shall lie down with the kid
And the calf and young lion together—
And a little child shall lead them.

	Below was a drawing of the scene: a little girl walking in front of a polka-dot leopard, a somewhat fiddle-footed lion, a slightly potbellied calf.

	Then he came to her poem:

Not Alone
by Lenore Hastings

Daddy and Mama—
I loved them so
Where now they lie, 
I do not know.

I think a grave,
By a bulldozer made,
Is the place where
They both were laid.

No one to pray
And no one to care
As the cold earth
Covered them there.

And I was left
In the enemy's hand,
And I walked alone
In the enemy's land.

I cried alone
When the day was bright,
And I cried alone
In the long, dark night.

And then I heard
A voice so dear:
"Have you forgotten
That I am here?

"Have faith in Me
And take My hand—
You're not alone
In the enemy's land."

	He closed the notebook. She was still watching him, her eyes sombre. He wondered if she thought she might be punished for what she had written.

	And I walked alone ... in the enemy's land. Yes, he thought, she had walked alone—a little girl who must have felt far more alone than any soldier, in a prison camp with other soldiers, could ever feel. And she had not been afraid. He wondered why, as he had wondered the first time he met her, and he asked: "The last eight lines you wrote—how can you believe in something you can never see?"

	"You just ... believe," she said. Her expression became very earnest. "He said, 'I stand at your door—open it and I will enter.' He meant the door to your heart. And when you open this door you will see Him, without really seeing Him, and now that He is there with you. And when you know He's with you, you aren't so lonely anymore, and you're not afraid anymore."

	He did not reply and she said, "You don't understand what I mean, do you, sir?"

	"No, little girl, I do not."

	"You have to forget hatred and violence, and open up your heart and believe without question." Her big eyes were more solemn and earnest than ever. "The way a little child would believe, because He said, "Except that you become as a little child, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven'."

	There was a silence and she said, "He meant that you must have the faith and the love for others that a little child has."

	Again there was a silence broken only by the rumbling of the guns to the south.

	"Here's your poem," he said. "And your dinner."

	Disappointment passed across her face but she said nothing more. She went to the table and picked up the tray and notebook, to take them to her room.

	"Set the tray back down," he said, "and bring your chair over here."

	Full darkness came as they ate and with it came the first clank and growl of the artillery and tanks going by, hurrying to take up their positions for the attack. It was a sound that would continue for hours.

	The girl listened, poking at her food but no longer trying to eat. Finally she looked up at him and said: "You're going to make a real big attack against my country, aren't you—maybe even tomorrow?" He did not reply. "Why must you destroy my country, sir?" The blue eyes looked into his, dark with accusing reproach, and he thought, Gee—I wish she wouldn't look at me like that.

	"Eat your dinner," he said. "Or go write a poem—or something. Don't ask any more questions."

	"Yes, sir," she said. She picked up the notebook and pencil and sent to her room, leaving the tray on the table. He took another bite, then shoved his own tray to one side. He was suddenly no longer hungry, for some reason.

	He heard the wind die down and a drizzle of rain commenced. The rumbling outside was growing louder as the trucks were added to it. Through the window he could see activity at general headquarters and the tent area below, as preparations were made to move out. Some of the officers would go to assigned posts along the battle line, others would go to the new general headquarters in Sector 12.

	He supposed that he should go at the same time as the rest of them—but he could see no reason to hurry when it was only ten kilometers to the new location. Besides, arriving in the night would make it harder for him to find a place for the girl to stay.

	He remembered that this had been her birthday. Last year it would have been one of presents tied with bright ribbons, a white birthday cake with pink candles, and somebody singing, "Happy birthday to you ..." This year it was a lonely room and the sound of an enemy army passing by.

	He picked up some paper work that had not yet been completed and concentrated on it until he became drowsy. Then he settled back in the chair and went to sleep. He awoke just before dawn. Lieutenant Delay came in a few minutes later. "The last of us are ready to leave," Daley said. "I have a couple of men out here to load your things."

	"Have them stow away everything but the communicator," he said. "Then all of you go on. I'll be my own driver."

	A few minutes later everything had been taken care of and the last vehicle had disappeared in the rainy night.

	He went to the girl's room. She was sprawled on the bed, asleep. Even in repose, there was a look of sadness to her face. The notebook was lying open beside her. She had written something else and he leaned over to read it:

The Red, Red Mountain
by Lenore Hastings

Once, long ago, there was a red, red mountain—
Home of the wild flowers and dark-eyed deer.
Then men came and saw this red, red mountain—
"Iron ore," they said. "We'll build our smelters here."

I hear them outside—the iron beasts of war—
Snarling and growling as they go by tonight,
Growling and raging as they pass in the dark,
Panting for blood in their southward flight.

Going to kill—that's why they were made—
from beasts that know neither mercy nor fear ...
God, make them again a red, red mountain—
Home of the wild flowers and dark-eyed deer.

	He touched her shoulder and she was instantly awake. "Time to go," he said. "We're moving to another camp."

	"Yes, sir."

	She picked up her notebook and pencil and followed him into the other room. There he took the communicator from the table and they went out into the night, where the car waited. It was still raining, but the clouds were thinning in the east and tin the west they were so broken that the full moon was visible part of the time as they drifted across it.

	She got in the car beside him and he looked up the slope, thinking that he would like to make one more check before he left. He drove to the top by the erratic light of the moon, stopped, and turned off the ignition. To the south the artillery was a long, long line of intermittently flashing red lights. But only one gun out of four was firing, and those with slow deliberation. It would be different soon ...

	The girl spoke, lonely and wistful: "I wish I was there."

	"Where?" he asked.

	"Beyond the guns—back in my own country."

	"I'll see that you're taken there in just a few days."

	"I wish I could be there now—for the little while that they will still be free."

	He looked at his watch. Within a few minutes the barrage would begin. The desultory fire of the guns would rise swiftly to a savage crescendo that would go on and on ...

	He would have to get her away from the sight of it before it began. He reached out to turn on the ignition.

	"I could help a little if I was there," she said. "I wouldn't know what to do with the bad wounds but I could help bandage the little ones."

	He hesitated, not yet starting the car. "Lenore," he said, "I'm sorry. I can understand how you feel—about your country—but this is war." He started the motor and added, "You will go home again"—no, she had no home—"you will be back in your own country again. And you will never be a little war orphan there with no one to care what happened to you—I promise you that I will see to that."

	"Why should you want to do this for me?"

	"Because I ... darn it, because I want to."

	"There will be thousands of war orphans like me before the day is over."

	She looked up at him, her face half-shadowed in the moonlight, and her hadn touched his arm.

	"If you care about what happens to me, you must care about the others. At this moment you are so close—to understanding.

	"So close ..." Her hand gripped his arm with the intensity of her emotions. "He is waiting outside—now!" There was pleading in her tone. "Please—before it is too late—open the door for Him!"

	He looked again at the battle line. The guns were beginning to fire faster, and there were more of them. It was time to go. "I'm sorry, little girl," he said to her, "but there is no door, and no one waiting outside." He put the car in gear, to turn it around.

	At that instant the camp area below them erupted with a deafening roar. He thought: enemy artillery—and they have our range! Shrapnel screamed and the windshield disintegrated before their eyes. The car jerked as something heavy smashed into the motor, then lurched violently, almost tipping over, as something tore off a wheel. He leaned over the girl and shoved the door open to her side. "Out!" he said. "We'll have to run—into those trees!"

	A moment later they were running. He held her by the upper arm so that he could half lift her to help her run faster. Then he heard the second shell explode behind them, and the shrapnel screaming past them. He thought he felt her stumble, and he though he heard her make a little cry that sounded like, "Oh!" but at that instant something struck the side of his head and he fell forward into blackness ...

	His first awareness was of the cold rain falling on him, and of the moonlight that covered the hill. The clouds in the west were gone ...

	Then he remembered what had happened. He looked for her, and saw her lying near him; lying on her back, her eyes closed and her face pale in the moonlight. "Lenore!" he said, and hurried to her and dropped to his knees beside her. He took her wrist and felt her pulse. It was weak—too weak ...

	He unbuttoned her blouse and saw the wound. A bullet-sized piece of shrapnel had torn through her chest, below the left collar bone. He ran to the wrecked car and found a first-aid kit and his communicator. He ran back to her and bound the wound the best he could to stop the flow of blood that was already too feeble.

	He switched on the communicator with the desperate lhope that it had not been damaged. It had not, and he called the nearest medical unit: "This is General Darrel, at what was headquarters on Hill Seventeen. Send the best doctor and best corpsmen you have, in the fastest ambulance you have, to the top of Seventeen. Get it here as soon as you possibly can." The order was quickly acknowledged and he turned back to the girl.

	She had not moved. He saw that the rain was already washing the blood from her bare stomach and the part of her chest not covered by the bandage. She should be kept warm and should not lie in the wet grass with the rain falling on her. But he did not dare move her before the doctor came. He took off his wet shirt and covered her chest and stomach with it. There was nothing more he could do but wait—with the feeling, as cold as the rain that fell on him, that it was already too late ...

	He looked away, to the south. The firing was increasing, faster and faster, and the sound was growing to a steady roll of thunder. They would keep the main force of the enemy pinned and helpless while the tanks and infantry closed in. It would all be over before sundown—the main army destroyed and the capital left so undefended as to be helpless ...

	She stirred a little beside him and he turned quickly to her. Her eyes were open, watching him, dark in the moonlight. But her little face, wet with the cold rain, was paler than ever.

	He took her hand, and could barely feel a pulse ... "Help is coming, Lenore," he said. "Everything is going to be all right."

	She spoke in a voice so low that he could barely hear it. "Thank you ... for trying ... but I know."

	"Don't say that, Lenore—fight, for just a little longer!"

	"Daddy and Mama ... soon I'll see them again ..." He held her hand and heard the artillery fire increase still more. "The guns ..." she said. "Today my country dies ... doesn't it?"

	"It's only the thunder of a morning storm," he said. "Lie still, Lenore—the doctor will soon be here."

	"You were good to me ... don't feel sad because I ... must go."

	"No! Don't talk like that!"

	"Remember be ... and what I told you ... and why I wasn't afraid ..."

	"Lenore, I ... I ..."

	She tried to speak to him, and her cold little hand squeezed his, as though in farewell. Then a tremor seemed to pass through her and she was suddenly very quiet and still.

	It seemed to him that he knelt there for a long time, still holding her hand, while the rain fell on her sweet, white face.

	To the south the artillery fire was like a solid flame and the thunder of the guns seemed to shake the ground.

	Today my country dies ... It seemed to him that his free hand moved out with a volition of its own and switched on the communicator. He called general headquarters and asked for Horton.

	A few seconds later Horton said, "Yes, sir?"

	"Stop the attack," he said. "All phases of it. Notify the enemy that a truce will be in immediate effect and that today we shall start withdrawing to our own boundaries."

	"Withdrawing?" There was astonished disbelief and protest in the exclamation. "But sir—victory is ours! We ..."

	"Forget the victory! Do as I say or find out how it feels to face a firing squad! I have my own reasons for these orders and they are sufficient."

	There was a pause, then, "Yes, sir. I'll have the orders sent out at once."

	He switched off the communicator. To the south the gunfire still raged, but it would soon start fading away.

	He looked again at the girl, still holding her hand. She had wanted to live—the gentle child who now lay dead before him. And he had killed her. By his actions he had killed her as surely as if he had fired a bullet through her heart.

	She had faced death like a soldier, asking no quarter, saying: "Remember me ... and why I wasn't afraid ..." She had come like a warm ray of sunshine into the cold winter that had always been his life to brighten it for a little while. Now she was gone, and he had appreciated it all too late ...

	The red fire in the south was dying away. He noticed it absently, thinking of what she had said: "Except that you become as a little child ..." These beliefs had given her comfort, especially as she lay dying, and he was grateful for that. But they were only beliefs—only the wishful dreaming of a homeless girl who had been but a little child, herself.

	He knew for certain only that he had tried to save her, and he had failed ...

	And the red artillery fire in the south had vanished, and the east was golden with dawn ...

	And that the thunder and roar of destruction was no more and the only sounds were the whisper of rain and the soft call of a bird ...

	And that he was still kneeling beside her, holding her hand and stroking her cold, white cheek ...

	And that he was crying like a little child ...

The End