"War!" she said, in a low voice.
"War?" he repeated, stupidly. She stretched out an arm towards the east; then, with a passionate gesture, she stepped to his side.
"War! Yes! War! War! War! I cannot tell you how I know it—I ask myself how—and to myself I answer: 'It is coming! I, Lorraine, know it!'"
A fierce light flashed from her eyes, blue as corn-flowers in July.
"It is in dreams I see and hear now—in dreams; and I see the vineyards black with helmets, and the Moselle redder than the setting sun, and over all the land of France I see bayonets, moving, moving, like the Rhine in flood!"
The light in her eyes died out; she straightened up; her lithe young body trembled.
"I have never before told this to any one," she said, faintly; "my father does not listen when I speak. You are Jack Marche, are you not?"
He did not answer, but stood awkwardly, folding and unfolding the crumpled maps.
"You are the vicomte's nephew—a guest at the Château Morteyn?" she asked.
"Yes," said Marche.