"I do—promise," Roy said with difficulty.
"And you will do your best to keep up your mother's spirits? You must be the same plucky fellow with them that you have been all along with me. Don't make any difference. They will need it now more than ever."
"It's so beastly hard," muttered Roy.
"Yes," and a pause. "There's one thought that's sometimes a comfort to me. Perhaps it might be to you too. Whatever happens, one may remember still—that God is over all. Things won't go on for ever like this."
The interview was getting to be too much for both of them. Denham drew one hand across his forehead. "There!—that will do. No need to say any more. Now I must go and speak to your father."
* * * * * * *
Three days later the third company of forty détenus quitted Verdun for Valenciennes. Roy and Colonel Baron were at the gate, with many others, in the early morning, to see the detachment off upon their enforced pilgrimage. Denham had never held his head higher, or looked more composed, and Roy did his best to imitate his friend. But he found it hard work. This was not like any ordinary farewell. He and Denham alike knew themselves to be in the power of an unscrupulous martinet, behind whom was another equally unscrupulous and quite irresponsible despot. Neither could conjecture what might become of the other, or whether they might again meet before the close of the war; and each was sure that every possible impediment would be thrown in the way of their communicating by letter.
Roy returned with his father to M. Courant's house, a heavy sense of blank weighing upon them both. Ivor's was a personality which never failed to make itself felt, and he had the power of winning affection, without apparent effort. The difference made in their little circle by his departure was more than could beforehand have been imagined.
Not in their own little circle only. Many in Verdun knew that they had lost a valued friend that day; and even downstairs Denham was strangely missed. Somebody else, beside Roy, shed at night a few quiet tears, when nobody could see. Lucille herself was perplexed at the acute consciousness which clung to her of Captain Ivor's absence.
Somehow she had not of late thought a very great deal of that poor young De Bertrand, whose image once had filled her thoughts. Not that she forgot him, but other thoughts and other interests had taken possession of her mind.