There were several ways, as Blake reasoned,
by which that letter might have got into the hands of the enemy. But at
any rate, with everything said, it was a woman's letter. He had no right
to read it. He would first confide in his wife, and, if she said so, in
Mrs. Ray. Then what they decided should decide him.
But now came a new problem. Despite the long morning of peril and chase
and excitement, there was still much more ahead. His men were in saddle;
his troop was afield; the foe was in force on the road to the north; the
battle, mayhap, was on at the very moment, and Frayne and home was no
place for him when duty called at the distant front. Only, there was
Nan, silent, tremulous, to be sure, and with such a world of piteous
dread and pleading in her beautiful eyes. It was hard to have to tell
her he must go again and at once, hard to have to bid her help him in
his hurried preparations, when she longed to throw herself in his arms
and be comforted. He tried to smile as he entered the gate, and thereby
cracked the brittle, sun-dried court plaster with which a sergeant had
patched his cheek at the stables. The would-be glad-some grin started
the blood again, and it trickled down and splashed on his breast where
poor Nan longed to pillow her bonny head, and the sight of it, despite
her years of frontier training, made her sick and faint.
Pages:
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124