"Over there is the enemy," he thundered. "Those who rest here look at them face to face!"
His arm dropped; his voice sank.
"They didn't get over there. But their souls remain here always to urge us and to point the way which we must go."
He stopped and seemed to listen. The wind had died; even the tree tops were still. The sun had gone; the dark began to sweep up over the graves. D'Artagnan leaned upon his alpenstock; his eyes were closed.
We did not stir, nor hardly breathe. D'Artagnan was in communion with the soul of his beloved France.
THREE CHAPTERS IN CONCLUSION