Hands were stretched out to draw back the crippled soldier; eyes that a moment before were turned away looked kindly at him; a Babel of voices broke out, "No, no," "let him stay," "it's a shame," "let him alone, conductor," "we ain't so bad as that," with more of the same kind; those who chose not to join in the chorus discreetly held their peace, and made no attempt to sing out of time and tune.
The car started again.

The _gentleman_, furious at the turn of the tide, cried out, "Ho, ho! here's a pretty preacher of the gospel of equality! why, ladies and gentlemen, this high-flyer, who presumes to lecture us, is nothing but a"-- The sentence was cut short in mid-career, the insolent sneer dashed out of his face,--face and form prone on the floor of the car,--while over him bent and blazed the young officer, whose entrance, a little while before, nobody had heeded.
Spurning the prostrate body at his feet, he turned to Francesca, for it was she, and stretched out his hand,--his left hand,--his only one.

It was time; all the heat, and passion, and color, had died out, and she stood there shivering, a look of suffering in her face.
"Miss Ercildoune! you are ill,--you need the air,--allow me!" drawing her hand through his arm, and taking her out with infinite deference and care.
"Thank you! a moment's faintness,--it is over now," as they reached the sidewalk.
"No, no, you are too ill to walk,--let me get you a carriage." Hailing one that was passing by, he put her in, his hand lingering on hers, lingering on the folds of her dress as he bent to arrange it; his eyes clinging to her face with a passionate, woeful tenderness.

"It is two years since I saw you, since I have heard from you," he said, his voice hoarse with the effort to speak quietly.
"Yes," she answered, "it is two years." Stooping her head to write upon a card, her lips moved as if they said something,--something that seemed like "I must! only once!" but of course that could not be.

"It is my address," she then said, putting the card in his hand.