She did not complain, even in her inmost heart; the touch of sternness that was inevitable with a sincere belief in her austere creed strengthened her and enabled her to be glad and proud that they were all united in a cause she considered sacred.
She was prepared to let them all go, to lose them, if God willed, one after the other, and neither to murmur nor lament.
Yet how she cared, how she suffered in the midst of her pride and triumph, the pain that shook her as she watched them, so young, so brilliant, so pleasant, none present guessed save perhaps Rénèe le Meung, whose senses were acute with love.
The Countess knew for what reason the council had been held to-day: she knew that in a while now all would scatter to try the desperate chances of a desperate war, and not by one word would she have striven to hold them back; but as the quiet service continued, as the green glow of the trees was changed to the westering flood of red over those five martial figures who had once been children on her knee, Juliana of Stolberg breathed a prayer for them that was a prayer of agony.
When the service was over, she lingered a little in the white chapel, now filling with the dusk; her limbs trembled and her eyes were misty. Her daughters stayed with her, all sad for their brothers, Catherine too for her husband.
Each woman thought of the long vista of anxious days before them—days of waiting, days of news perhaps worse than waiting; days when they would remember, with such poignant pain, this present time of peace.
They slowly left the chapel, Rénèe behind them, unnoticed in the shadow.
In the antechamber William waited for his mother.
Her dark eyes smiled at him, she put out her hand and touched his shoulder.
"When do you start?" she asked.