"
Miss Cahill knit her hands together and turned away her head. The
happiness in her heart rose to her throat like a great melody and
choked her. Before her, exposed in the thin spring sunshine, was the
square of ugly brown cottages, the bare parade-ground, in its centre
Trumpeter Tyler fingering his bugle, and beyond on every side an
ocean of blackened prairie. But she saw nothing of this. She saw
instead a beautiful world opening its arms to her, a world smiling
with sunshine, glowing with color, singing with love and content.
She turned to him with all that was in her heart showing in her face.
"Don't!" he begged, tremblingly, "don't answer. I couldn't bear it--
if you said 'no' to me." He jerked his head toward the men who
guarded him. "Wait until I'm tried, and not in disgrace." He shook
the gate between them savagely as though it actually held him a
prisoner.
Mary Cahill raised her head proudly.
"You have no right. You've hurt me," she whispered. "You hurt me."
"Hurt you?" he cried.
She pressed her hands together. It was impossible to tell him, it was
impossible to speak of what she felt; of the pride, of the trust and
love, to disclose this new and wonderful thing while the gate was
between them, while the sentries paced on either side, while the
curious eyes of the garrison were fastened upon her.
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