Georges d’Espagnac had raised his face; his cloak had fallen open on the pale blue and silver of his uniform; the candle glowing on the silken, crystal-encased armour of St. Wenceslas cast a pale reflected light on to his countenance, which, always lovely in line and colour, was now transformed by an unearthly passion into an exquisite nobility.
He was absolutely still in his exalted absorption, and only the liquid lustre of his eyes showed that he lived, for his very breath seemed suppressed.
The young captain looked at him tenderly. “Beautiful as the early morning of spring,” he thought, “are the first years of youth.”
M. d’Espagnac rose suddenly and crossed himself.
“I would like to keep vigil here, as the knights used to,” he said—his breath came quickly now. “How silent it is here and vast—and holy; an outpost of heaven, Monsieur.”
His companion did not reply; he remained at the opening of the gates, gazing through the coloured lights and shadows. The world seemed to have receded from them; emotion and thought ceased in the bosom of each; they were only conscious of a sensation, half awesome, half soothing, that had no name nor expression.
The weary campaign, the monotonous round of duties, the sordid details of the war, the prolonged weeks in Prague, the fatigues, disappointments, and anxieties of their daily life—all memory of these things went from them; they seemed to breathe a heavenly air that filled their veins with delicious ardour, the silence rung with golden voices, and the great dusks of the cathedral were full of heroic figures that lured and beckoned and smiled.
A divine magnificence seemed to burn on the distant altar, like the far-off but clearly visible goal of man’s supreme ambitions, nameless save in dreams, the reward only of perfect achievement, absolute victory—the glamour of that immaculate glory which alone can satisfy the hero’s highest need.
To the two young men standing on the spot where the saintly prince fell so many generations before, the path to this ultimate splendour seemed straight and easy, the journey simple, the end inevitable.
The distant mournful notes of some outside clock struck the hour, and M. d’Espagnac passed his hand over his eyes with a slight shiver; he was on duty in another few minutes.