The things we do!

Better struggle, conflict, than
this ominous waiting, this silence, here in this place of infamy,
this home of horror, this house of some other woman. It was with a
sense of relief that at length she heard a human voice.
Outside, beneath the window, quavering sounds rose. The words were
French, Canadian French, scarce distinguishable to an ear trained
only in the Old World. It was an old man singing, the air perhaps
that of some old chanson of his own country, sung by villagers long
before:
"Souvenirs du jeune age
Sont gravis dans mon coeur,
Quand je pense au village,
Revenant du bonheur--"
The old voice halted, at length resuming, idly: "_Quand je
pense--quand je pense_." Then after humming the air for a little
time it broke out as though in the chorus, bold and strong:
"Rendes-moi ma patrie, ou laisses-moi mourir!"
The words came to her with a sudden thrill. What did they not mean
to the alien, to the prisoner, to the outcast, anywhere in all the
world! "Give me back my country, or let me die!"
She stepped to the window and looked down.


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