“We must be very dear to each other—”
There were tears in her eyes now, and her breast rose and fell with emotion, as poignant to Mowbray as if it were his own.
“I did pray for them not to bring you here,” she added. “If I had not left Warsaw, you would not be here now—”
“Listen—oh, Berthe, don't say that. Please, listen—”
The current was turned on in his brain, thoughts revolving faster and faster:
“It would all have been a mere military movement if you had not come. I would not have understood Spenski, nor the real Samarc, nor Kohlvihr as he is, nor the charges of infantry. The coming of Moritz Abel, words I have heard, the street, the singing, the field, the future—why, it's all different because you came. I am not dismayed by this. I have had a great life here. If this is our last day—the matter is lifted out of our hands. And dear Berthe, what do you think it means to me—this last hour together?”
“What does it mean, Peter?'
“I look into your face, and know that I've found something the world tried to make me believe wasn't here. Everything I did as a boy and man tried to show me that there isn't anything uncommon in a man finding a woman. My mother knew differently, but every time she wanted to tell me something happened. Another voice broke in, or perhaps she saw I wasn't attentive or ready. But I know now—and it didn't come to me until here in Judenbach—”
“She must have known,” Berthe whispered.
Fallows drew near. He seemed calm but very weary. “May I bring up my chair for a little while?” he asked as an old nurse might.