Suddenly hate possessed her—hate for this man who would rule the world—causing whole nations to rise up against him to defend their soil—hatred for the power that had brought despair into unknown lives—
Brought murder into peaceful souls.
The days followed each other in bleak sameness.
She moved among the wounded—a shadow self—
But at twilight each day, Janet lived. She played the Miserere—with her soul. Then again—the moving dazed form would return to help the men lying on mattresses where once peasants had knelt in prayer—
VI
Her music became divine. The Miserere sobbed out into the cold night air—cleansing her soul of hatred—even Peace—a joy—
The air was rent by whistling shells—the organ throbbed under her touch—
Hugh—forever—