“The killing—­it must have been terrible!” her mind at last made her exclaim to cover her tardiness of response to his mood.

“You thought of that—­as you should—­as I do!” he said.

He took her hands in his, pulsing warm with the flowing red of his strength.  She let them remain lifelessly, as if she had not the will to take them away, the instinct of her part again dominant.  To him this was another victory, and it was discovery—­the discovery of melting weakness in her for the first time, which magnified his sense of masculine power.  He tightened his grip slightly and she shuddered.

“You are tired!” he said, and it hurt her that he could be so considerate.

“The killing—­to end that!  It’s that I want!” she breathed miserably.

“And the end is near!” he said.  “Yes, now, thanks to you!”

Thanks to her!  And she must listen and submit to his touch!

“The engineers and material were ready to go in,” he continued.  “Before morning, as I had planned, we shall be so well fortified in the position that nothing can budge us.  This success so strengthens my power with the staff and the premier that I need not wait on Fabian tactics.  I am supreme.  I shall make the most of the demoralization of this blow to the enemy.  I shall not wait on slow approaches in the hope of saving life.  To-morrow I shall attack and keep on attacking till all the main line is ours.”

“Now you are playing your real part, the conqueror!” she thought gladly.  “Your kind of peace is the ruin of another people; the peace of a helpless enemy.  That is better”—­better for her conscience.  Unwittingly, she allowed her hands to remain in his.  In the paralysis of despair she was unconscious that she had hands.  She felt that she could endure anything to retrieve the error into which she had been the means of leading the Browns.  And the killing—­it would not stop, she knew.  No, the Browns would not yield until they were decimated.

“We have the numbers to spare.  Numbers shall press home—­home to terms in their capital!” Westerling’s voice grew husky as he proceeded, harsh as orders to soldiers who hesitated in face of fire.  “After that—­after that”—­the tone changed from harshness to desire, which was still the desire of possession—­“the fruits of peace, a triumph that I want you to share!” He was drawing her toward him with an impulse of the force of this desire, when she broke free with an abrupt, struggling pull.

“Not that!  Not that!  Your work is not yet done!” she cried.

He made a move as if to persist, then fell back with a gesture of understanding.

“Right!  Hold me to it!” he exclaimed resolutely.  “Hold me to the bargain!  So a woman worth while should hold a man worth while.”

“Yes!” she managed to say, and turned to go in a sudden impetus of energy.  His egoism might ascribe her precipitancy to a fear of succumbing to the tenderness which he thought that she felt for him, when her one wish was to be free of him; her one rallying and tempestuous purpose of the moment to reach the telephone.