Oliver understood well enough, yet at present he had no words.

He only drew her a little closer to himself, kissed her hair two or three times, and settled himself to hold her.

He began to rehearse what he must say presently.
Then she raised her flushed face for an instant, looked at him passionately, dropped her head again and began to sob out broken words.
He could only catch a sentence here and there, yet he knew what she was saying....
It was the ruin of all her hopes, she sobbed, the end of her religion.
Let her die, die and have done with it! It was all gone, gone, swept away in this murderous passion of the people of her faith ...

they were no better than Christians, after all, as fierce as the men on whom they avenged themselves, as dark as though the Saviour, Julian, had never come; it was all lost ...

War and Passion and Murder had returned to the body from which she had thought them gone forever....