Pascal waited to mount his horse until almost the last ranks were on the move.
“What spirits he has,” exclaimed Denys to Lucette as they stood watching the men. “I am sorry he is going.”
But Lucette was silent.
The last rank passed, and then Pascal, turning in the saddle, waved his hand and smiled. His eyes rested for a moment on Lucette’s, at least so it seemed to her; and she raised her kerchief and waved back to him just as he touched his horse and moved after his men.
She continued to wave and to stare after him, but he did not look back until, quite in the distance, he turned and again, as she thought, looked at her; and again she answered, waving to him.
He did not look back any more, and when, the last sign of the troops having disappeared and she was still staring after them, Denys touched her arm, she started almost as one awakened from a dream.
“I am glad he has gone,” she said, sighing; and then Denys saw that her eyes were dimmed with tears.
“Tears? Lucette?” he cried.
“It strains one’s eyes to stare so long. Give me your arm, Denys dear, and be patient with me to-day. I—I—oh, Denys dearest, I am so glad you are well again,” and she walked away clinging closely to his side.
And Denys, not understanding this mood of hers, was almost as much perplexed by her humour as he was delighted by her tenderness.