“Varensky?”
She nodded.
“Where?”
“To die for us.”
In the silence that followed, the heat of his temptation vanished. He felt accused by the quixotic magnanimity of this strange creature, half prophet, half charlatan, whose wife he had coveted.
“Once I'd have been glad that he should die,” he confessed slowly, “but not now. Food has done far more than his sacrifice could have accomplished. Why should he be determined to die now?”
She trusted herself to come closer, standing over him and giving him her hand.
“Perhaps for our sakes. Perhaps for his own. Perhaps in the hope that his appearance may put a stop to what's left of the fighting. There was a wireless last night which he kept to himself. It said that skirmishing was developing between the Poles and the Russian refugees in the No Man's Land beyond Kovel. It was after he had read it that he went out. I waited for him to return—when I guessed. We've all misjudged him. Perhaps we're still misjudging him. Who can say why he's gone? There's nothing gained by attributing motives. He wants to give his life. He's promised he would so often; always he's been thwarted. He owes it to his honor. Kovel may be the world's last battle—his final chance.”
In the bare room the dawn was spreading. Hind-wood rose from his chair, stretching his cramped body and gazing at the map with its safe red line of flags.
“Our work is ended,” he said quietly. “Within the next few hours stronger men will be here to take control—a commission of the best brains, picked from all the nations. God chose us to be His stopgap.” He paused. “After having been His instruments in averting a world-catastrophe to speak of things personal seems paltry. And yet my love for you fills all my thoughts. I leave Budapest a bankrupt. I shall have to start life afresh. Your love is literally my sole possession and I have no right to it.”