"Bucky told me to be brave, he told me not to
lose my nerve," she repeated to herself over and over again,
drawing comfort from the memory of his warm, vibrant voice. "He
said he would come back, and he hates a liar. So, of course, he
will come." With such argument she tried to allay her wild fears.
But on top of all her reassurances would come a swift, blinding
vision of gallant Bucky being led to his death that crumpled her
courage as a hammer might an empty egg shell. What was the use of
her pretending all was well when at that very moment they might
be murdering him? Then in her agony she would pace up and down,
wringing her hands, or would beat them on the stone walls till
the soft flesh was bruised and bleeding.
It was in the reaction, after one of these paroxysms of despair,
that in her groping for an anchor to make fast her courage she
thought of his letter.
"He said in three hours I was to read it if he didn't come back.
It must be more than three hours now," she said aloud to herself,
and knew a fresh dread at his prolonged absence beyond the limit
he had set.
In point of fact, he had been gone less than three-quarters of an
hour, but in each one of them she had lived a lifetime of pain
and died many deaths.
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