She flashed a look of impatient scorn upon him.
“You are trifling with your destiny, Nicholas,” she cried. “What matters the life or death of such as Metzger? Our people need you. Out and tell the men of Theos that once again a Reist will save his country.”
“Brave words, little sister. Brave words.”
Her eyes were ablaze with anger.
“Have I been mistaken in you all these years, Nicholas?” she cried. “Listen again. Those are the children of your city who call to you for aid. Have you no longer the heart of a man or the blood of a patriot?”
A storm of wind and rain shook the high windows. From below came the sound of a multitude thronging nearer and nearer till the square seemed filled to overflowing with a surging mob. The man raised his head as one who listens, and the smile no longer lightened his face. The woman who watched him anxiously drew a long sigh of relief. She knew then beyond a doubt that it needed no words from her to fire his resolution.
“Marie,” he said, quietly, “those are the voices which I have prayed all my life that I might hear. Only I fear that they have come too soon. Have you considered what it is that they would have from me?”
“They would make you lord of the country,” she cried. “Who better or more fitted? Have no fear, Nicholas. You come of a race of rulers. The God of our fathers will guide your destiny.”
The room, huge, unlit and darkened with tapestry hangings, seemed full of mysterious shadows. Only those two faces—the girl’s passionate, the man’s keenly thoughtful—seemed like luminous things. From below came still the murmur of voices rising every now and then to a hoarse roar. The man became suddenly explicit. His face relaxed. He came back from a far-away land of thought.