“Hermann is no longer in the gardens. He—he has left.”
“Left!” cried David. “Given up—” He stopped short, looking into the face of his friend, a face whose eyes shifted uneasily away from his. Then comprehension came to him, and he did a fine and beautiful thing.
“To the brave,” said he, lifting his glass, “who face death for the country that they love.”
Was there, perhaps, a small savor of salt to the beer which Jonathan set down after his draught? If so, he need not have been ashamed. It seemed to me, when I saw them going home that night, that their arms were hooked a little closer than common.
Not long after it was David's turn to get a letter. He sat fingering it when Jonathan entered.
“From our young Robert?” asked the German.
David nodded.
“Am I to see it?”
“He says—he says some things about—about the war,” faltered the Frenchman. “Youth is perhaps harsh. And he is a high spirit—my boy.”
Something in the tone told the German. “He has enlisted?”