insist. But Luce went on a few minutes later:
"Ah, there are moments . . . One is ashamed to belong to mankind."
Pierre trembled.
"Yes," said he.
And after a silence, bending over, he said very low:
"Forgive me!"
Luce sprang up impetuously, threw herself on Pierre's neck, repeating:
"Forgive me!"
And their mouths found each other.
The two children felt the need of consoling one another, both of them. Without saying it aloud they were thnking:
"Luckily we are going to die! The most frightful thing would be to become one of those men who are proud of being man—to destroy, to render vile . . ."
Lips touching lips, eyelashes brushing eyelashes, they plunged their gaze one in the other, smiling and with a tender pity. They did not tire of that divine sentiment which is the purest form of love. At last they tore
