She stood still in the dim distance a moment longer, her fingers touching the brow already cold. Then she seemed to remember that I was waiting at the far door. I was not twenty feet away, and yet in the few seconds required for her to reach me, a sort of vision filled my mind--a vision of the peace that soon would come to the world--the song of fruitful labour sung again, peaceful lands, soft dusks, lit cabins, filled barns, peaceful flocks and up-reaching baby fingers--all with such a queer shock to a male consciousness like mine. And when she stood before me, I felt that the best part of Varsieff was also there. I even fancied his look in her eyes, such as you see exchanged in an old pair who have lived long together. I think that a great love always seeks to make one of two--in different ways than we dream. "You came from him?" she whispered. "Yes." "How does he look?" she asked. "He looks like you," I said, for the moment inspired. "He looks like a sun-god, too. He looks _with your love_ into the eyes of soldiers and statesmen and revolutionists, and they find him irresistible." "Dear Lange," she said. "He loves you, too. You are changed. You have come into the big magic of the revolution----" "I am Varsieff's friend, first and last--his comrade." "And mine," she whispered. "The magic comes from standing between, Mlle. Mantone." She smiled and bent toward me. She had been like a tall, white flower, but now for a second as she bent closer, it seemed to me that I saw a hint of Varsieff's gold flame on the other side--because we talked of him. "What did he say?" she continued in a low whisper. "He said to tell you that he and all your friends were busy, day and night, weaving and binding the Cause into one great fabric. He told me to tell you this--that the work of the Weavers will be given to the world in a day or two--possibly the day after to-morrow. I wish you could have seen Varsieff's face as he spoke to me this last. I remember his words exactly: 'Tell Paula all that I do is for her. That I read and write and dream and breathe through her heart--that she has taught me well to love and wait--that I love the world through her heart.'" "Anything more?" she asked in a kind of agony. "He told me to say that only you knew his weaknesses, so far----" "I love them best," she answered. "A woman always holds a little tighter to the sweet human things of her child.... But he is a teacher, a leader. He must be clean and flawless.... If it were only for us--I should have him, weaknesses and all.... But he is to lead the clean peasants to their promised land----" * * * * * Varsieff listened as a desert listens for rain. He caught me by the shoulders when I ceased to speak--as if to shake something more from my mind and heart. "A man must be half-divine to keep step with that woman," he said. Then he changed the subject by remarking that Christonal was not half-divine--quite.