Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/321

you see, Eric," her hands stabbed the air desperately-"that the blood is not even dry? The slaughter continues. The hatred still rages on both sides-and you ask, who is in the way? Oh, Eric, Eric!"

She looked down at the ground and kicked the dust with the tip of her shoe, as if searching for something to justify her desire for him, and continued: "Can we forget-erase the past, and start anew? Could we possibly succeed? Won't the world, with its denegerating influences, separate us again?"

"We will leave this place." Eric bent down to follow the figures which she had drawn in the dust. "We will run away, Anna. I want peace, happiness. I am tired of the constant nervous strain-of the war and its results. You see, Anna?" he said with feeling. "I'm not the fanatic I used to be, the young maverick. I've grown old-tired, tired of hiding be- hind false names, wearing masks to save my skin." His voice broke. "I have nobody left to fight for. Let's go away, Anna. We're mature people now. The Tunisian shores are still blue. Come, Anna, let's try again! I'll be faithful to you. I'll serve you as a slave. I'll-"

"Stop!" she broke in, annoyed. "This slave business is silly. Serve again! Didn't you pay enough for the blunder of serving others?" She placed her hand on his knee. "No, Eric, we will not build our life on blind obedience-but on understanding-mutual understanding-without any outside influence-just you and I. We will rise above the chasm of enmity and redeem ourselves by our physical union-so that the next generation will be free, and without prejudice. Oh Eric, Eric-" She rose from the bench, her face flushed with a mixture of pleasure and pain, and self-accusation. Her passion for Eric, like a wounded tiger, had become fiercer in its slow dying, made savage by despair. She clung