"I had forgotten," she cried, with a soft tremble of wonder in her
voice. "We have both forgotten. We promised the commandant that we
would talk about your duty to the tribes."
I kissed her for her forgetfulness. "Talk is unnecessary," I
whispered. "I have made up my mind."
But the drum's note had recalled her to what lay outside the tent
walls. She sighed a little and bent to me as I sat at her feet.
"Do not make up your mind yet," she begged with a curious, tender
reluctance. "Let me tell you something first."
I pressed her hand between my own. "I cannot listen. I can only feel.
Tell me, when did you love me first?"
She raised her hand to hide a tide of color. "Monsieur, it is my
shame," she cried, with a little half sob of exultance. "It is my
shame, but I will tell you. The night--the night that we were married,
I lay awake for hours beset by jealousy of the woman of the miniature.
Oh, I am indeed shamed! But how could I help it? Your walk, your
laugh, your way of carrying your head! How could I keep from loving
you? But I fought it. I fought it. I knew we had to part. I went to
sleep every night with that thought uppermost."
I took the hand I held, and quieted its trembling against my lips.
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