iercingly at her, as if realizing a will opposed to his,
a conviction not in sympathy with his.

"You're going to keep this up--this trying to change my mind?"

"I surely am," she replied, both wistfully and wilfully.

"Why? I should think you'd respect my sense of duty."

"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.

"Kurt--I think--presently I'll give you the surprise of your life," she
replied, and summoned a smile.

How obtuse he was! How blind! Perhaps the stress of his emotion, the
terrible sense of his fate, left him no keenness, no outward
penetration. He answered her smile, as if she were a child whose
determined kindness made him both happy and sad.

"I dare say you will," he replied. "You Andersons are full of
surprises.... But I wish you would not