“We always like your sermons, little novice,” he said. And, to the others: “Nobody wishes to deny what she says is quite true”––he scratched his head, still grinning––“only––while there are Kurds in the world–––”
“And Bolsheviki!” shouted another.
“True! And Turks! God bless us, Tavarishi,” he added with a wry face, “it takes a stronger stomach to love these beasts than is mine–––”
In the sudden shout of laughter the girl, Palla, looked around at her comrade, Ilse.
“Until each accepts the Law of Love,” said the Swedish girl-soldier, laughing, “it can not be a law.”
“I have accepted it,” said Palla gaily; but her childishly lovely mouth was working, and she clenched her hands in her sleeves to control the tremor.
Silent, the smile still stamped on her tremulous lips, she stood for a few moments, fighting back the deep emotions enveloping her in surging fire––the same ardent and mystic emotions which once had consumed her at the altar’s foot, where she had knelt, a novice, dreaming of beatitudes ineffable.
If that vision, for her, was ended––its substance but the shadow of a dream––the passion that created it, the fire that purified it, the ardent heart that needed xl love––love sacred, love unalloyed––needed love still, burned for it, yearning to give.
As she lifted her head and looked around her with dark eyes still a little dazed, there was a sudden commotion among the mujiks; a Cossack called out something in a sharp voice; their officer walked hastily out into the darkness; a shadowy rider spurred ahead of him.