Christophe gathered her into his arms: 'It means
what such leave always means in wartime ... it was
good of my Colonel to grant these few hours, he need
not have done so.5

'Oh, my son/ she whispered.

Then they looked at each other very intently as
though each would remember the other's face, every
line, every curve, every fleeting expression. And as
they did this there dropped from Christophe that
well-nigh intolerable sense of detachment, so that now
he could stoop down and rest his cheek for a moment
against her protective breast as though he were once
more a little child; and she dragged off his cap and
fondled his hair, twisting it gently over her finger while
she murmured the simple and foolish words that are
often a great consolation to children. Thus they stood
in the quiet, deserted street with no one to see and
no one to hear them. And it seemed to Christophe
that never before had he been so completely bone of
her bone, and flesh of her flesh, and heart of her heart.
And it seemed to Marie that never before — no, not
even when he had lain in her womb — had she held
him so amazingly close, so protected and wrapped
about by her body.

'Blessed be the Mother of God,' she breathed.

And he answered: 'Blessed be the Mother of God.
Come, it is time that we went to my father.'

Jouse gazed at his son with heavy blue eyes in
which there still lingered the shadows of his dreaming:
'Is it late — am I going to be late for work? Have I
overslept?5 And then he remembered. 'Christophe
. . . you here?3
Christophe took his hand: 'We are ordered to
Palestine/ he told him.
Jouse said nothing, for what could he say? He could
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