“I was just here,” Berthe said. “It was soon after we came. We were all quiet at first—in different corners—”
“Slipping away in that loneliness,” Fallows suggested.
“As for me,” said Moritz Abel, “I had to make peace with myself. We have been very busy the last few days. I have discovered that I am a bit of a coward at heart—and I missed having something to do—”
They smiled at him. “Perhaps I was out there,” Berthe said. “Perhaps I was only sitting here—”
It was a queer matter that the three men, each of whom would have given his life to save the woman's, to all appearances accepted the fact of her as one of them in courage and control. It was Abel who mentioned the singer, Poltneck, whom Peter had not met. He had been left in the hospital when the others were taken; yet he had been one in all their interests and the most reckless and outspoken of all in his hatred of slaughter. They did not understand, but hoped he would be saved.
“He's a magician,” Abel said. “He sang to them yesterday—as they bore the knife. He seemed to hold them in the everlasting arms. It was worth living to witness that, but I'm afraid Poltneck will come to us. He's got the fury. Hearing that we are gone, he will start something—if only to join us. Then there will be no one to escape with the story. It troubles me.... If Mr. Mowbray were only free. Doesn't it seem that our brothers should hear the story?”
His voice broke a little. His brow was wet.
Fallows came back from the ceiling, and said:
“Moritz, my boy, all is well with us. That which is true is immortal.”