Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/239

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a series of pits into which we must fall like Joseph, scrabbling our way back to the level ground, bloody and bruised, learning through trial and error, the purpose and goal of being. Death was indeed sad, but sadder still was the soul that sought to escape the tragic sense of life by hiding in the quiet hills far from the clash of arms and the cries piercing the night.

For the first time in three years she felt again that Paris was her real home. At night, unable to sleep, she thought of the words Eric had once said to her-and she knew that he had been right. Yes, we are children of our time, she thought. We are too deeply integrated in the problems of the world to be capable of running away from them into some safe corner.

There is no escape. The hounds of earth, like the hounds of heaven, track us down and drive us back to our duty, to humanity, to the battle-zone of our era where every soul must take sides, for or against the dignity of man, for or against the assassins of life, the tormentors and the tormented, the insulted and injured, whose vengeance some day would be dreadful-the terrible Meek riding to triumph on Judgment Day.

Eric was right. We cannot be deserters. Time has simply placed us on opposing battle-lines. I am not deserting. I'm coming back, Paris-back to take my place in the ranks.

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