“I'm glad, too.... If we were only in the winter stillness—”
They were silent. Samarc's hand came up to Peter, and drew him close. It was clear that he could not bear the woman to hear his struggle for speech. “Tell her about Spenski,” came to Peter's ears in the lipless mouthing.
Berthe saw that Peter was ghostly white, as he lifted his head. She thought it had to do with what the wounded man said.
Peter began at random, gathering his thoughts on the wing. Nothing hurt him in quite the same way as that suggested havoc under the bandage. He steadied himself, and talked of the little lens-maker. Strength came from the joy he was giving Samarc.... It seemed that they were quite alone. He told of the night of stars, of the little man's superb sensitiveness.... She bent to Samarc at last.
“You wanted him to tell me?”
He nodded. There was something intensely pathetic in it all. Her eyes were full of light.
“The story thrills me,” she whispered. “Oh, this is very far from a hopeless world. What I have seen to-day—even the fortitude of infamous men—manhood, black and white—the war within the war. Don't you see, all Russia is out here in the wilderness casting forth her demon? We must not mind blood nor death—for the result means the life or death of the world's soul!”
Once she would have seemed very far and remotely high to Peter Mowbray.... They had drawn a little apart from the cot.
“What made you so white?” she asked.
“It's my weakness. We rode together for days and quartered together. He was so clean-cut. It's the way his words come. And he seems so utterly bereft without the little man.”