"Our Comrades are coming to us—hold for them!... Don't run away ... they are coming! They are coming to join us, when they clean themselves up over yonder—only a little clean-up first, my children. Hear the noise?"
I don't know how long I rode. I only knew that the fighting death was victory—that there is no propaganda like martyrdom....
They answered at first with a kind of half-hearted halt. I was struck with the silence. A queer thing happened. I saw that I had spoken the truth.... There was firing ahead, but it had no meaning of death to our ranks. They were firing in the air, and some threw down their guns and were running toward us. Presently we saw the tent-cloths hoisted in truce. It was like seeing my mother again—shaking the table-cloth to the birds.
Then I saw their lines and ours running together—yes, Varsieff's new heaven and new earth—saw them running together bare-headed, white-haired peasant boys, hands outstretched, mouths open.... Freedom was an aureola of different sunlight around their heads. On they came like glorious ruffians, seizing their brothers in their arms—the lines folding together like good mates before the Lord.
Then it was like a blast—that Varsieff must see this! A cold blast in the heart—that he must not miss this glory—that my eyes must not dwell upon this great consummation alone! Deep within, I knew my pain was because his head was not lifted to the picture of his conquest. Deep within, I knew that for some inexplicable reason of fate, he was held back like the old Master on the other side of the Jordan—not allowed to enter and witness the beauty of the promised land.
In the midst of that radiant tumult, I ran back to the place that I had left him. It was trampled; the mud was deeper, but Varsieff was not there.... In the midst of the shouting and the glory, I searched for him.... Hours passed, the fighting ceased ... we were a hundred thousand strong, armed, provisioned, hearts turned homeward.... Scores of us were looking for the Varsieff now.
And then I heard my name called, and two young student-officers caught me, one to each elbow and carried me forward, running to where the woman stood ... Paula Mantone. She was standing in the midst of her own people—the sun on her face. And I saw, too, the white look of one who has conquered fear, but the weariness of her eyes was like the presence of death....
"Where is he?" she whispered.
"Oh, God, I do not know——"
"Poor dear Lange—all is well with us.... The boys of two armies rushing together—yes, Lange, this is a good day for us——"