Philip looked across the room to Celie and her
father as he divided the cartridges. They were both listening, yet
he knew they did not understand what he and Olaf were saying. He
dropped a half of the cartridges into the right hand pocket of the
Swede's service coat, and advanced then toward Armin with both his
hands held out in greeting. Even in that tense moment he saw the
sudden flash of pleasure in Celie's eyes. Her lips trembled, and
she spoke softly and swiftly to her father, looking at Philip.
Armin advanced a step, and their hands met. At first Philip had
taken him for an old man. Hair and beard were white, his shoulders
were bent, his hands were long and thin. But his eyes, sunken deep
in their sockets, had not aged with the rest of him. They were
filled with the piercing scrutiny of a hawk's as they looked into
his own, measuring him in that moment so far as man can measure
man. Then he spoke, and it was the light in Celie's eyes, her
parted lips, and the flush that came swiftly into her face that
gave him an understanding of what Armin was saying.
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