“And you think that you will win?” she asked.  “You think that you will win?” she repeated with the slow emphasis which demands a careful answer.

The deliberateness of his reply was in keeping with her mood.  He was detached; he was a referee.

“Yes, I know that we shall.  Numbers make it so, though there be no choice of skill between the two sides.”

His tone had the confidence of the flow of a mighty river in its destination on its way to the sea.  There was nothing in it of prayer, of hope, of desperation, as there had been in Lanstron’s “We shall win!” spoken to her in the arbor at their last interview.  She drew forward slightly in her chair.  Her eyes seemed much larger and nearer to him.  They were sweeping him up and down as if she were seeing the slim figure of Lanstron in contrast to Westerling’s sturdiness; as if she were measuring the might of the five millions behind him and the three millions behind Lanstron.  She let go a half-whispered “Yes!” which seemed to reflect the conclusion gained from the power of his presence.

“Then my mother’s and my own interests are with you—­the interests of peace are with you!” she declared.

She did not appear to see the sudden, uncontrolled gleam of victory in his eyes; for now she was looking fixedly at the point where Hugo had stood.  By this time it had become a habit for Westerling to wait silently for her to come out of her abstractions.  To disturb one might make it unproductive.

“Then if I want to help the cause of peace I should help the Grays!”

The exclamation was more to herself than to him.  He was silent.  This girl in a veranda chair desiring to aid him and his five million bayonets and four thousand guns!  Quixote and the windmills—­but it was amazing; it was fine!  The golden glow of the sunset was running in his veins in a paean of personal triumph.  The profile turned ever so little.  Now it was looking at the point where Dellarme had lain dying.  Westerling noted the smile playing on the lips.  It had the quality of a smile over a task completed—­Dellarme’s smile.  She started; she was trembling all over in the resistance of some impulse—­some impulse that gradually gained headway and at last broke its bonds.

“For I can help—­I can help!” she cried out, turning to him in wild indecision which seemed to plead for guidance.  “It’s so terrible—­yet if it would hasten peace—­I—­I know much of the Browns’ plan of defence!  I know where they are strong in the first line and—­and one place where they are weak there—­and a place where they are weak in the main line!”

“You do!” Westerling exploded.  The plans of the enemy!  The plans that neither Bouchard’s saturnine cunning, nor bribes, nor spies could ascertain!  It was like the bugle-call to the hunter.  But he controlled himself.  “Yes, yes!” He was thoughtful and guarded.

“Do you think it is right to tell?” Marta gasped half inarticulately.