He turned and faced her steadily, as he had more than once faced
the Boers, when he knew that before him was nothing but defeat.
"So you're not going to England ever?"
Pride had squeezed every shade of emotion from his voice.
"No." Beatrice gripped her fingers together tightly.
"Are you sure you won't be sorry--afterward?"
"Yes, I'm sure." Beatrice had never done anything she hated more.
Sir Redmond, looking into her eyes, wondered why those much-vaunted
sharpshooters, the Boers, had blundered and passed him by.
"I don't suppose it matters much now--but will you tell me why? I
believed you would decide differently." He was holding his voice down to
a dead level, and it was not easy.
"Because--" Beatrice faced the moon, which threw a soft glow upon her
face, and into her wonderful, deep eyes a golden light. "Oh, I'm sorry,
Sir Redmond! But you see, I didn't know. I--I just learned to-day what
it means to--to love. I--I am going to stay here. A new company--is
about to be formed, Sir Redmond. The Maltese Cross and the--Triangle
Bar--are going to cast their lot together." The golden glow deepened and
darkened, and blended with the red blood which flushed cheek and brow
and throat.
It took Sir Redmond a full minute to comprehend. When he did, he
breathed deep, shut his lips upon words that would have frightened her,
and went down the steps into the gloom.
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