Ailsa Craig, like thousands of her sisters, tore the
red-white-and-blue rosette from her breast and flung it down among
the bayonets with a tremulous little cheer.
Everywhere the crowd was breaking into the street; citizens marched
with their hands on the shoulders of the soldiers; old gentlemen
toddled along beside strapping sons; brothers passed arms around
brothers; here and there a mother hung to the chevroned sleeve of
son or husband who was striving to see ahead through blurring eyes;
here and there some fair young girl, badged with the national
colours, stretched out her arms from the crowd and laid her hands
to the lips of her passing lover.
The last shining files of bayonets had passed; the city swarmed
like an ant-hill.
Berkley's voice was in her ears, cool, good-humoured:
"Perhaps we had better try to find Mrs. Craig. I saw Stephen in
the crowd, and he saw us, so I do not think your sister-in-law will
be worried."
She nodded, suffered him to aid her in the descent to the sidewalk,
then drew a deep, unsteady breath and gazed around as though
awaking from a dream.
"It certainly was an impressive sight," he said. "The Government
may thank me for a number of heroes.
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