She paused and a look of enraptured emotion illumined her face as she slowly continued:
“If a city were besieged and soldiers were defending its strong places, and a breach had been made in the embattlements, the men within would close that breach with the first thing at hand. They would not spare even the priceless marble figure on which an artist had spent years of loving toil—unless the defending soldier were the artist who created the masterpiece! He could not hurl this treasure into the breach to be crushed into a shapeless mass. He would find another way or die in the effort.
“Man is woman’s masterpiece. For twenty-five years she broods and watches and works with loving care to fashion this immortal being. Give to her the decisive voice in war and she will find a better way to fill the breach. She will not hurl her masterpiece into this hell. Man has failed to find a better way. May not we who love most and suffer most at least have the chance to try?”
The sweet penetrating voice died softly away and she had taken her seat before the crowd realized that she had stopped.
A moment’s dead silence and then cheer after cheer swept the throng.
An excited man lifted high his hand and shouted:
“We’ll give you the chance. Yes—yes!”
Zonia’s grip tightened suddenly on John Vassar’s arm.
“You’ll let me introduce you, Uncy?”
Vassar laughed excitedly.