She was looking at him with a brave clearness of the eyes.
“I suppose sensible people would call such a venture—mad.”
“We are often strongest, dear, when we are most mad.”
He swung on beside her, his eyes at gaze.
“The madness of a forlorn hope. No, it is not that. I have not any of the impudence of the adventurer. It is something more solemn, more grim, more for a final end.”
“Beloved, I understand.”
“Are you not afraid for me?”
“No, no.”
She put her hand under his arm.
“God give us both courage, dear,” she said.