“You stay here?”
“No, I walk another twenty kilomètres. That has happened to many people. Their hearts fail them when they see what has happened.”
“I can understand.”
“The authorities order us to go back—but can they give an old man a new heart and strong arms? They speak of help, but no help comes. I blame nobody; we have suffered so much.”
“But will no one return?”
“Oh, yes, we shall come back,” said the old man, “but we wait for the spring to come, and for food. Our roots are here, I suppose, right under the ruins of all those houses. But it will need courage—courage!”
He lit his pipe, got up, and made ready for his second twelve-mile walk. Endurance, a blind, patient, half-dazed endurance, that was what Brent saw in him, the endurance that had saved France. It was tragic and it was splendid, and it filled Brent with a feeling of deep humility.
“We young men shall have to help the others,” he said.
The Frenchman gave him a look of surprise.
“Those are good words. But I have found it a selfish world. Perhaps it will be a scramble. Everybody will be too busy.”