The Sergeant stood in silence for a moment, his cap once more in his hand, his head bowed. Broussard knew he was giving thanks.
Broussard, under cover of the darkness, took his way to the quarters which Mrs. Lawrence had never left. He knocked and, receiving no answer, entered the narrow passage-way and walked into the little sitting-room. Lawrence lay back in the arm chair in which his wife had spent so many hours of helpless misery. His face was paler than ever and his lank hair lay damp upon his forehead. Mrs. Lawrence, who had been suffering from the cruel malady known as a shamed and broken heart, sat by her husband, speaking words of cheer and tenderness. As Broussard entered she rose to her feet with new energy, no longer tottering as she walked, and placed both arms about Broussard's neck.
"Oh, my brother! The best of brothers," she cried and could say no more for her tears.
Presently they were sitting together, all externally calm, but all filled with a tense emotion.
"Try to persuade her," said Lawrence to Broussard, "to go away before the court-martial sits. It will be too much for her."
Mrs. Lawrence turned her dark eyes, once tragic but now brimming with light, full on Broussard. Broussard said to Lawrence:
"These angelic women are very obstinate."
"Would your mother, of whom my husband has told me so much, go away if she were in my place?"
Both Broussard and Lawrence remained silent.
"Then," said Mrs. Lawrence, "can you blame me if I act as your mother would act?"