Dimly she saw all this, but clearly she saw the inside of a great man's mind. She, Claire René, had work to do; she was called—for France!
Long, slanting shadows from the sinking sun were streaking the wall of the whitewashed room with slender, forklike fingers. Jacques and the three men were knotted in talk beside the ruddy fire glow. Claire René braced herself with a sharp sigh. No soldier ever went into battle with a more self-made courage than hers.
Unseen, unnoticed, noiselessly she made her pilgrimage across the room. In the dark closet, under the stairs, she reached for the wreaths. With quick, short breath she gathered them in her arms. One moment she lowered her head while her lips touched the faded crackling flowers. The compact was sealed; her sacrifice was ready.
In that attitude she passed swiftly within the circle about the fireplace. She came like a spirit of Peace with the wreaths in her arms. Over and above the serenity in her face there dawned a joyous expectancy. Yes; she could trust les Américains!
On each reverent, bowed head she placed her wreath; and when she had finished, without tremor in her voice she said: "My brothers!"
FOOTNOTES:
[17] Copyright, 1919, by The Curtis Publishing Company.
Copyright, 1921, by Ethel Dodd Thomas.