"Yes. To be honest, very great danger. The blacks are free. The lower whites rule the seaports. It is to be more terrible than the riot of murder at home."
He had remained standing while he talked. For half a minute the dark figure and unchanging face bent over the embroidery-frame without a word of reply. Then rising, she set a hand on each of his shoulders and said, "You must go, René." Centuries of the training and creed of a race of warlike men could not have failed to defeat love-born anxiety, and the dread of loss, in a woman through whom had passed into the making of a man certain ancestral qualities. "You must go," she repeated.
"Thank you, mother. I was afraid—"
"Of what?" she cried. "That I should be afraid for a man of my blood to risk life where duty calls him?"
"No, mother; I was afraid that you might not see it all as I do."
"If, René, this were but a peaceful errand of months away, I should have said no. The debts, all—all might have stood. I should have been ashamed, but obstinate, my son. We will not discuss it. You must go. And is it for long?" The clear, sweet voice broke a little. "Is it for very long?"
"I do not know."
"Ah, well. I do not want to see you in the morning. When you are ready to-night, you will say good-by."
"Yes, mother. And now I must pack my bag." And he left her.