"But their hearts are turned homeward, Lange," he said. "Their eyes are building their homes all over again—eyes turned homeward over the mountains——"
"Turned to God," I said reverently.
"Yes, but taking my word—the word of Varsieff—that God is there——"
"He is there."
"But will He come to them at the last, Lange?... Will He show His face—so they will believe?... When they feel their death-wounds—the blood sliding out, warm and silent—the cold coming in—will they hold to what I said? Will He be there for them?"
"You're shot up, old man, only a bit bewildered to-day. No one knows better than you how great emotional giving of one's self to Cause or Country makes death easy—and quickens the Soul."
Varsieff was ashen.
"I've got to eat all my words! Even you, bring back my words to me. I've talked too much.... Suppose I am a madman——?"
"Then you have no responsibility for what you said," I smiled.
He stared at the tent-wall.