Of course, they did not know it in The States'' office, neither the Old Man nor his managing editor, but a way had been found to rock Peter Mowbray. Indeed he would have been rocked to pieces had he not found his work that day in Judenbach. ....When no one was listening, he would talk to the wounded. Peter discovered that there was a woman in him, as many a field-man has discovered. In fact he came to believe that we are all mixed men and women, and that it is the woman in us that suffers most. He had a suspicion that there was a woman in Boylan, and had to smile just there. He sank into the work, and saved himself. Samarc appeared to be asleep.
He would have laughed to have heard his own talk afterward. A man does not remember what he says to a loved horse, or to a dog that looks up in passing. Innocent as that, Peter's sayings to the wounded and dying. Had there been spies about, the American would have been counted eminently safe. He had to talk; his heart was so full; it was part of the action that saved him. All the time there was in the background of his mind a steady amazement at himself—something of his, aloof, watchful, that was not exactly ready to accede to all this change and emotion, and yet was not strong enough to prevent.
Twice through the long forenoon he saw a little black-whiskered orderly, eyes dark and wide and deep, his nose sensitive and finely shaped, his shoulders unsoldierly. Once his cap fell as he went to lift a pan, and Peter saw as noble a brow as ever dignified a man. He went to him and, as he stood there, he found there was nothing to say.
“Who are you?” the other asked.
“That's what I was trying to think to ask you?” Peter said with a smile. “I am Mowbray, an American correspondent—”
“Why are you here?” He pointed to the cots.
“I had to do something.”
“The misery called to you?”
“Perhaps. To be sure, I'd better say my own misery made me come.”
They talked in French.
“It is all the same. You are not a beast.”
“I'm not sure,” said Peter.
“That is good, too. I'm glad you have come. All morning I have watched you....”
“You did not answer me. Who are you?”
“I am Moritz Abel.”
He held a wash basin in one hand, a bit of linen in the other—this man who had done such a poem that the glory of the future flashed back through it, to sustain and to be held by men. It was a queer moment. Facing each other, Mowbray thought of Spenski—as if the little lens-maker stood behind the narrow shoulders of the poet.... Was it only the little red-headed body that they had killed? Would the immortal come back with a new story of the stars? Thus Peter found himself thinking of Spenski, with this lover of new Russia before him. And would the destroyers slay this one too?... Now his humanity came back in a cloud, and he shuddered at the thought of Russia murdering the man who wrote We Are Free.... Perhaps it was the woman in him that made him say:
“I hope you live through the long night, Monsieur.”
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