"My brother here—you—and—I."
"Mon Dieu! Such a darkness. Tell me, it is a sign of luck, is it not, to meet with two brothers?"
"Well," his tone was apologetic. "We're not blood-brothers—just—" He hesitated.
"Ah!" She breathed softly. "Is it, as the curé says, 'a Brotherhood of man'?"
He could not explain to himself why he should so resent her comparing him to her priest.
"It is a brotherhood of understanding," he said. "It is because we are friends."
"Friends?" She questioned.
"Of course," he stated emphatically. And at the same time he wondered at his own vehemence. Why should he call this man, whom he could not even see, his friend? "Surely you do not think that I could sit here in the dark, holding my enemy by the hand?"
"But no," she muttered as though to herself. "No hands are given in this time of war. No hands but the hands of hate."
For the first time the man spoke.