"And there are our children."

"Here, beyond the wall, your father died."

"Yes. He died. He died without awakening."

The smallest child, frightened at something in her sleep, began to
cry. And this simple childish cry, apparently demanding something,
sounded so strange amid these phantom walls, while there, below,
people were building barricades.

She cried and demanded--caresses, certain queer words and promises
to soothe her. And she soon was soothed.

"Well, go!" said my wife in a whisper.

"I should like to kiss them."

"I am afraid you will wake them up."

"No, I will not."

It turned out that the oldest child was awake--he had heard and
understood everything. He was but nine years old, but he understood
everything--he met me with a deep, stern look.

"Will you take your gun?" he asked thoughtfully and earnestly.

"I will."