"I would it were true!" he exclaimed.
She looked a surprised inquiry. His thought was, "for then I should steal you, and wear you always on my heart." But of course he could speak no such lover's nonsense; so he said, "Because of the fitness of things; you wished to be a shadow, which is immaterial, and hence of the substance of angels."
Truly he was improving. His effort to betray no love had led him into a ridiculous compliment. "What an idiot she will think me to say anything so silly!" he reflected; while Francesca was thinking, "He has ceased to love me, or he would not resort to flattery. It is well!" but the pang that shot through her heart belied the closing thought, and, glancing at him, the first was denied by the unconscious expression of his eyes. Seeing that, she directly took alarm, and commenced to talk upon a score of indifferent themes.
He had never seen her in such a mood: gay, witty, brilliant,—full of a restless sparkle and fire; she would not speak an earnest word, nor hear one. She flung about bonmots, and chatted airy persiflage till his heart ached. At another time, in another condition, he would have been delighted, dazzled, at this strange display; but not now.
In some careless fashion the war had been alluded to, and she spoke of Chancellorsville. "It was there you were last wounded?"
"Yes," he answered, not even looking down at the empty sleeve.
"It was there you lost your arm?"
"Yes," he answered again, "I am sorry it was my sword-arm."
"It was frightful,"—holding her breath. "Do you know you were reported mortally wounded? worse?"
"I have heard that I was sent up with the slain," he replied, half-smiling.