Marie was kneeling close by the altar, amidst a group of weeping mothers and sisters. Her eyes were dry, but dim and restless; she spoke to no one, but turned constantly toward the door, as if she were watching for some new arrival. When the brothers came in, there was a movement, the crowd made way for them as they walked up to the altar, and hushed their sobs to hear what they were going to say.
“Monsieur le Curé,” said Gaston, “only one of us may enlist, and you are to choose between us; which of us may go and fight for the king?”
“Ah! my children, what is it you ask of me! How can I choose!” exclaimed the old man, clasping his hands. “You are both dear to me; I would have you both fight for the king and win a crown of glory. If you fall fighting in defence of God and his altars, yours will be the crown of the martyrs. Which is most pure at heart, strongest in faith, most worthy to serve in the cause of God? He alone can tell!”
“François! François!” cried many voices in chorus, and the people gathered round the poor man’s friend, and blessed him, and bid him joy of being chosen for the good fight.
“So be it!” said the curé; and
François knelt down, and the curé laid both hands upon his head and blessed him.
Marie was a silent and unnoticed spectator of the scene. She was still on her knees, clasping the altar-rails with both hands so tightly that the strain left them white and bloodless. François waited till the crowd had followed M. le Curé out of the church, and it was empty except of the two, and then he went close up to Marie and knelt down beside her. He did not speak, and she did not look at him, but she knew that it was François.
“Marie!” he said, and laid his hand on her arm.
Then she turned and looked into his eyes, and these two knew that they loved each other.
“If I fall, you will remember me, Marie, and pray for me,” said François, taking her hand in both his.