Drusilla, wise Drusilla pondered.  “Perhaps the war will teach men like Bruce that women aren’t playthings—­”

“Don’t be too hard on me, Drusilla.”

“I am not hard.  I am telling the truth.”

“I’ll forgive you, because in these weeks you’ve taught me a lot—­” Bruce McKenzie’s world would not have recognized in this tired and serious gentleman its twinkling, teasing man of medicine.  Weary feet on the stones—­

“I must go to them,” Drusilla said.

She went out on the step.  They saw the men cluster about her—­French and English, Scotch—­a few Americans.

Her voice soared: 

  “In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea,
  With the glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me. 
  As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free—­
  While God is marching on—­”

“Look,” said the Doctor.  “Do you see their faces, Derry?”

Gazing up at her as if they drank her in, the men listened.  She was the daughter of a nation of dreamers, the daughter of a nation which made its dreams come true.

Tired and spent, they saw in her hope personified.  They saw America coming fresh and unworn to fight a winning battle to the end.  So they turned their faces towards Drusilla.  She was more to them than a singing woman.  Behind her stood a steadfast people—­and God was marching on.