"Berkley, the world seems to be coming right. I am grateful that
I—lie here—with you beside me."
Berkley's throat closed; he could not speak; nor did he know what he might have said could he have spoken, for within him all had seemed to crash softly into chaos, and he had no mind, no will, no vigour, only a confused understanding of emotion and pain, and a fierce longing.
Colonel Arran's sunken eyes never left his, watching, wistful, patient. And at last the boy bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his face in both hands. Time ebbed away in silence; there was no sound in the ward save the blue flies' buzz or the slight movement of some wounded man easing his tortured body.
"Philip!"
The boy lifted his face from his hands.
"Can you forgive me?"
"Yes, I have. . . . There was only one thing to forgive. I don't count—myself."
"I count it—bitterly."
"You need not. . . . It was only—my mother——"
"I know, my boy. The blade of justice is double-edged. No mortal can wield it safely; only He who forged it. . . . I have never ceased to love—your mother."