“Gaston, I believe I can see the sea—the moon is so bright.”
“Yes?” said he, with a note of enquiry.
“I wish we were down there now,” she went on rather unsteadily, “—where the yellow poppies bloomed last autumn. Do you remember?”
“Do I remember? Do I ever forget? I have them safe—what you gave me.” He touched his breast with his other hand.
“My darling, if they could only bring you forgetfulness—forgetfulness of to-morrow!”
He shook his head. “They will not easily do that.” From her his glance strayed to the sheathed sword lying on the table. She could not bear to see his face when he looked at it, and hid her own.
He seemed then to make an effort to turn his thoughts. “You were speaking of the sea, beloved. When this . . . this business is over, the sea shall take us away at last to happiness.”
Valentine raised her head quickly. “At last! Gaston, no happiness over the sea, in tranquillity, can ever have the taste of this I have known, in warfare, since last summer! It can never be better, even as this, come what may, can never be less. If it ended to-morrow, you know that I have lived to see all that I dreamt of—more than I dreamt of! O, my knight, when the utmost has been wrought, what matters the broken sword! Please God there are many more happy days before us . . . but not better, not happier days!”
Their lips met in silence. Then, as she knelt there, he bowed his head till it rested on her shoulder. Grief and love were one.