She shuddered as if hurt, but only momentarily.
"Psychological, I suppose—psychological and irresponsible abnormality!" she murmured, avoiding Hugo's look and bending her own on Westerling persistently.
"Long words!" said Hugo. "Insanity is shorter."
But Westerling did not seem to hear. His thought was shaped by the superb misery and sensitiveness in Marta's face. He had done wrong to ask her to remain. Of course the scene had been painful to her. She would not be herself if she wanted to see a man tried for his life. He knew that views not unlike Hugo's were latent in many minds lacking Hugo's initiative that would respond to the right impulse. A way out occurred to him as inspiration, which pleased his sense of craft. The press, which the premier reported was irritated by his censorship—the press which must have sensation, the traffic of its trade—should have a detailed account of how one of our indomitable regiments placarded a private as coward, proving thereby that the army was a unit of aggressive zeal.
"You are alone—one man in a million in your ideas!" he declared, with judicial gravity. "We shall postpone your trial and leave public opinion to punish you. Your story will be given to the press in full; your name will be a byword throughout the land, an example, and while you are convalescing you will remain a prisoner. When you are well we shall have another talk I may give you a chance, for the sake of your father and mother and your sweetheart and the good opinion of your neighbors, to redeem yourself."
"I had to tell you what I felt, sir," said Hugo. "Thank you for letting me live, after you knew."
He saluted and turned away. Marta and Westerling watched him as he hobbled around the corner of the house and in a heavy silence listened to the crunch of his crutch tips on the gravel growing fainter. Her lashes, those convenient curtains for hiding thought, dropped as Westerling looked around; but he saw that her lips had reddened and that she was drawing a long, deep, energizing breath. When the lashes lifted, there was still wonder in her eyes—wonder which had become definite tribute to him. The assurance he wanted was that he had borne himself well, and he had it.
"You kept your patience beautifully," she told him. "It seems to me that you were both kind and wise."
"How I was to be merciful against the facts puzzled me," he replied, "until you saved the day with your suggestion of psychological irresponsibility."
"Then I helped? I really helped?"