eart of Africa,
face to face with England; on the shores of Morocco, face to face with
Germany--twice she has overcome her old barbarous instinct."

"Shameful memories, for which every Frenchman blushes!"

"Glorious memories, of which we should be proud! One day, those will be
the fairest pages of our time; and those two dates will wipe out the
execrable date. That is the true revenge! That a nation which has never
known fear, which has always, at the tragic hours of its history,
settled its quarrels in the old barbarous fashion, sword in hand, that
such a nation should have raised itself to so magnificent a conception
of beauty and civilization, that, I say, is its finest claim to glory!"

"Words! Words! It's the theory of peace at any price; and it is a lie
that you are advising me to tell."

"No, it is the possible truth that I ask you to admit, cruel though it
may be for you to do so."

"But you know the truth," cried Morestal, waving his arms in the air.
"You've sworn it three times! You've signed it three times with your
name! You saw and heard the truth on the night of the attack!"

"I do not know it," said Philippe, in a firm voice. "I was not there. I
was not present when you were captured and carried off. I did not hear
M. Jorance's call. I swear it on my honour. I swear it on the heads of
my children. I was not there."

"Then where were you?" asked Marthe.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STAGES TO CALVARY

The little sentence, so terrible in its conciseness, set up a clear
issue between the two adversaries.

Carried away by the exuberance of their convictions, they had widened
the discussion into a sort of oratorical joust in which each fought
eagerly for the opinions which he held dear. And Le Corbier knew better
than to interrupt a duel whence he had little doubt that some unexpected
light would flash, at last, from amid the superfluous words.

Marthe's little sentence evoked that light. Le Corbier, from the
beginning of the scene, had noticed the young woman's strange attitude,
her silence, her fevered glances that seemed to probe Philippe
Morestal's very soul. He understood the full value of the question from
her accent. No more vain declamations and eloquent theories! It was no
longer a matter of knowing which of the two, the father or the son,
thought the more justly and served his country with the greater
devotion. One thing alone carried weight; and Marthe had stated it in
undeniable fashion