For one moment he hated her as a man hates the cause of an intolerable suffering. The next, he saw that she had outstripped him. She had taken the fundamentals of his life and built her own edifice upon them—a higher, finer edifice than his own.
"I see that there is no choice for you," he said, with a chivalrous resignation. "And you're right. We don't count."
He felt the hand in his tighten. He looked down into his wife's ashen face. Throughout she had not spoken—scarcely moved. Now the change in her startled him out of the stupefying absorption of his pain. He saw that she had ceased to be afraid, and that the malice and anger had gone from her. He saw her as she had been in her girlhood, in her first innocent, incredulous love of him. Her failing eyes were full of a deep, unearthly pity.
"Tris—you are both—very brave."
A groan burst from his lips.
"Anne—I can't leave you."
"You must. That is my little share in the sacrifice. I shan't be afraid now, Tris."
He knelt down beside her. She put her weak arms round his neck and kissed him. "Good-bye, husband."
"Little Anne—God keep you."
She smiled a little.