"Your duty is more here than at the front. The government man said so. My father believes it. So do I.… You have some other—other thing you think duty."
"I hate Germans!" he burst out, with a dark and terrible flash.
"Who does not?" she flashed back at him, and she rose, feeling as if drawn by a powerful current. She realized then that she must be prepared any moment to be overwhelmed by the inevitable climax of this meeting. But she prayed for a little more time. She fought her emotions.
She saw him tremble. "Lenore, I'd better run off in the night," he said.
Instinctively, with swift, soft violence, she grasped his hands. Perhaps the moment had come. She was not afraid, but the suddenness of her extremity left her witless.
"You would not!… That would be unkind—not like you at all.… To run off without giving me a chance—without good-by!… Promise me you will not."
"I promise," he replied, wearily, as if nonplussed by her attitude. "You said you understood me. But I can't understand you."
She released his hands and turned away. "I promise—that you shall understand—very soon."
"You feel sorry for me. You pity me. You think I'll only be cannon-fodder for the Germans. You want to be nice, kind, sweet to me—to send me away with better thoughts.… Isn't that what you think?"
He was impatient, almost angry. His glance blazed at her. All about him, his tragic face, his sadness, his defeat, his struggle to hold on to his manliness and to keep his faith in nobler thoughts—these challenged Lenore's compassion, her love, and her woman's combative spirit to save and to keep her own. She quivered again on the brink of betraying herself. And it was panic alone that held her back.