Sylvia, little Sylvia, who shared with him his student life⁠—who bore with him the dreary desolation of the siege without complaint⁠—this slender blue-eyed girl whom he was so quietly fond of, whom he teased or caressed as the whim suited, who sometimes made him the least bit impatient with her passionate devotion to him⁠—could this be the same Sylvia who lay weeping there in the darkness?

Then he clinched his teeth. “Let him die! Let him die!”⁠—but then⁠—for Sylvia’s sake, and⁠—for that other’s sake⁠—Yes, he would go⁠—he must go⁠—his duty was plain before him. But Sylvia⁠—he could not be what he had been to her, and yet a vague terror seized him, now all was said. Trembling, he struck a light.

She lay there, her curly hair tumbled about her face, her small white hands pressed to her breast.