He could see she was very restless, and her cheeks were pale; there was a strange, almost unnatural brilliance in her dark eyes. Her voice was jerky.
He took both her hands in his and pressed them tenderly. “You are not afraid, Valerie?”
He was a fanatic, bold, brutal, and ruthless in his fanaticism, ready to sacrifice anything and everybody to the one absorbing idea. But at the sight of those pale cheeks, that quivering mouth, a momentary regret assailed him. He was a father, and this beautiful young woman was young enough to be his daughter.
“We ought to have had a man for this job,” he said, speaking a little hoarsely. “But you know you chose it yourself; you would not even have another associated with you.”
“I know.” She tried to laugh lightly, but there was a quaver in the laugh. “I do not regret. I am not really afraid. But I suppose every soldier on his first battlefield has inward tremors that he cannot repress. I am a soldier of the Revolution, and to-night is my first battlefield.”
“And you feel those tremors, eh?”
“Just a little, although I blush for them. But don’t let us think of this. Ah, here comes lunch.” They sat down to the meal. She was a very abstemious woman, and rarely partook of stimulants. But, in honour of Contraras’ visit, she had ordered a bottle of champagne. Under its exhilarating influence, her jangled nerves readjusted themselves, and she became her natural self. The colour returned to her cheeks.
She raised her glass and nodded to her guest.
“To the new world, born upon the ruins of the old.”
“Amen to that wish!” cried Contraras fervently, as he drank his wine in one long draught.