It seemed to Nora that the crowds were denser than usual, that a curious unrest was written on the usually placid, cheerful faces that flashed past the open carriage window. She remembered Wolff’s expression as he had entered the room; she felt now that it had been the unconscious reflection from those other faces, and that the one invisible bond of sympathy which unites all men of the same race had passed on the flame of patriotism from one to another, till in all these thousands there burned, above every meaner passion, the supreme _Vaterlandsliebe_. Only _she_ felt nothing, nothing—though she was bound to them by oath—save fear and horror. She felt alone, deserted. Miles was the one being in the whole seething crowd who felt as she felt, who suffered as she suffered. She turned to him with an impulsive tenderness. He was not looking out of the window, but staring straight before him, with his low forehead puckered into thoughtful lines. "It’s a queer thing," he said, as though he felt her questioning glance. "Here we both are in a foreign country, mixing with people whom we shall be blowing up to-morrow, and to-day not moving a finger to harm them, just because the word has not been given, as it were. If I threw a bomb amongst all those big-wigs to-night, who knows what victories I might prevent?—and yet I suppose it would be murder. And then, there is Wolff stewing over papers that, I bet, the English War Office would give a few thousands just to look at; you and I sit and watch him and never move a hand." "What do you expect us to do?" she returned listlessly. "Nothing, I suppose."