“Our duty to God,” he said gravely. “Human pity. Love.”
An expression of immense sentiment filled his eyes An Englishman would have masked it more guardedly.
“Good-night,” said Brand, “and thanks again.”
The young German clicked his heels and bowed.
“Good-night, sir.”
Brand went to bed in a leisurely way, and before sleeping heard a violin being played in the room above his own. By the tune he remembered the words of an old song, as Eileen O’Connor had sung it in Lille, and as he had learnt it in his own home before the war.
“There’s one that is pure as an angel,
And fair as the flowers of May,
They call her the gentle maiden
Wherever she takes her way.”