"I'm—sure—He—will."
Barclay moved impatiently. He saw that they had forgotten him.
"Will you come, Sigrid?"
She bent her head in assent.
"Then you can go your way, Major," Barclay said.
But it was as though the last weapon which his tortured pride had forged for him had shivered against an impregnable armour. They were great—these people—even in defeat—even Anne, little cowardly Anne—could face death alone and unflinchingly. He recognized that greatness with a last anguish. He had their blood in him. If they had turned to him, recognized him, appealed to him in the name of their common ancestry,—even then—— But they did not think of him. He was a whirlwind driving them apart to their separate destinies—an impersonal, soulless force—no more.
"Come!" he demanded violently.
Tristram gave Sigrid his hand. They took up their burden of life. It had become heavier; but they took it up. And for a while they would carry it. But in the end there would be rest. That was their message and their farewell.
Tristram went out into the rain-swept street—past Vahana, who looked up into his face and laughed.
Sigrid lingered. She drew shyly near the camp-bed with its little burden.