"He is so happy, so gay," urged the voice, "so full of his plans! And
you have left it so late. How painful now, just as he is going, to bid
him think: 'I will never see her face again!'"
(How close he sat beside her! How close her secret sat within her!)
"Think how it is with you," pursued the tempting voice. "It is hard to
part from a face, but not so hard to part from the writer of a letter."
Over the next crest the Belgian Ardennes showed blue and dim in the
distance.
"Stop!" he said, holding up his hand again.
They were on the top of a high plateau; she drew up. A large bird with
red under its wings flapped out and hung in the air over the precipice.
"See--the Meuse!" he said. "See, on its banks, do you see down there?
Come to the edge."
Hundreds of feet below lay a ribbon-loop of dark, unstirring water. They
stood at the edge of the rock looking down together. She saw he was
excited. His usually pale face was flushed.
"Do you see down there, do you see in this light--a village?"
She could see well enough a village.
"That's Revins. And those dark dots beyond----"
"I see them."
"My factories. Before the summer you'll see smoke down there! They are
partially destroyed. One can't see well, one can't see how much--"
"Julien!"
"Yes?"
"Have you never been back? Have you never seen what's happened?"
She had not guessed this: she was not prepared for this.
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