"But to have things stop, Derry." She shuddered. "When there's so much ahead."
"Perhaps they don't stop, dear."
"If I could only believe that—"
"Why not? Do you remember 'Sherwood,' where Blondin rides through the forest singing:
'"Death, what is death?" he cried,
"I must ride on—"'"
His face was lifted to the golden sky. She was never to forget the look upon it. And with a great ache and throb of passionate renunciation, she told herself that it was for this that the men of her generation had been born, that they might fight against the powers of darkness for the things of the spirit.
She lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. Of how she had laughed at other women, scolded, said awful things to them of how their cowardice was holding the world back. She had thought she understood, but she had not understood. It was giving your own—your own, which was the test. Oh, let those who had none of their own to give keep silent.
With her breath almost stopping she thought of those glorious young souls riding on and on through infinite space, the banner of victory floating above them. No matter what might come to the world of defeat or of disaster, these souls would never know it, they had given themselves in the cause of humanity—for them there would always be the sound of silver trumpets, the clash of cymbals, the song of triumph!
Downstairs, Dr. McKenzie was listening with a frowning face to what Derry had to tell him.
"Do you mean to say that Hilda was giving him—wine?"