peter turned back from the upper door, since nothing further in the way of news was to be had from boylan. the first face that he saw within was fallows', and over it, as his own glance sped quickly, there passed a look as from some poignant burden. it was the look of a man who had thought the fight won, and now perceived that it must be resumed again. poltneck was just behind. peter would like to have preserved in picture the singer's realization that the chance was life instead of death—the blend of animal and angel which is so thrillingly human, as it was expressed upon that countenance. abel was smiling, something of a child in the smile, a tremulousness around the lips; and berthe came forward under the rain-blurred skylight—gladness, animation, a touch of the great tension lingering, but something else that he had not seen before in their prison hours. he went to her.
“what does it mean?” she whispered.
“it means that the door is open, the sentries gone. big belt is below and the town wild with some new trouble—”
“the austrians must have broken through,” said fallows.
“we are to stay until he gives us word,” peter added.
berthe was leading him back to the shadows.
“peter, does it mean that?”
he saw the dark low-glowing jewel in her eyes—the earth-shine, all the sweetness of earth in it. so close to death, it had not been ignited before in the skylight prison, but it was there for him now, and he loved her bewilderingly.
“i think we may almost dare to hope,” he whispered.
“the still snowy woods—only a brave bird or two remaining—the short brilliant days and early nightfall—our talks that will never come to an end—”
something of her longing frightened him—the danger of its intensity.
“i think we may almost dare to hope,” he repeated.
“peter, i think—i think you are braver than any—”
“nonsense.”
“but you did not see ahead! to you, it was a closed door yesterday and last night. fallows wants to go. he's weary. abel and poltneck are old rebels with visions. they have thought much of such hours as we have known here. but you—i saw it the first day in warsaw—the deadly courage. you had built no dream. you asked no future. you faced it—light or black.”
“berthe—i almost broke this morning—when i looked at you sleeping—and last night after boylan came.... i think i would have fought them in the street! it seemed—blasphemous for them to kill you—those dim fellows—”
“...peter—”
she had seemed to lose her way, the light gone from her eyes, her lips cold.... a sprinkle of water, and she was smiling again in his arms.
“it's strong—too strong,” she murmured vaguely.
the heavy step that peter knew was upon the stairs. he listened. yes, it was alone. boylan appeared in the doorway.
“go to him,” berthe whispered.
peter obeyed. there was a gladness for him in the touch of the big hand.
“tell us, boylan,” he said.
“they've gone.”
“the russians?”
“yes.”
abel had propped a chair behind big belt, who sank into it eagerly.
“the austrians have broken through?” poltneck said.
“i'm not quite sure about that,” boylan answered. “the column i saw from the main road a minute ago—coming up from the valley—looked like helmets to me.”
“berthe, what did you mean by 'strong—too strong'?”
peter had stepped back to her for a moment.
“did i say that?” she whispered smiling.
“yes.”
“i can't think of anything—but my love for you. it must have been that.”
