His persecutors had been shamed and undone. He had seen his companions dissipate, his sergeants run; seen his captains fail to hold. The great force that had tortured him, that had seemed the world in strength, was now broken before his eyes. Its mighty muscles were writhing, their strength running down. The love of God was splendid in the ranker’s heart; the breath of home had come. The turning in the grain—was a turning homeward.
All this Fallows saw. It was illumination to him—the hour of his great reception.
Luban, just insulted by the other infantryman, now faced the big, blithe presence, emerging unhurried from the grain. Luban raised his voice:
“And what are you sneaking back for?”
“I am not sneaking——”
“Rotten soldier stuff—you should be shot down.”
“I am not a soldier—I am a ploughman.”
“You are here to fight——”
“They forced me to come——”
“Forced you to fight for your Fatherland?”