“I cannot thank you; I can only remember,” she had written. And here was I bent upon blotting the memory with this slur of my own crude, brutal selfishness. Was this what she would look for in her comrade? Was it what she had the right to expect? How would the act look when she came afterwards to remember?
Unwittingly I checked my horse. I was a coward now of another kind. I was afraid to satisfy my own desire; afraid to mar the memory she would have of our comradeship; afraid to meet the look of reproach I knew would be in her eyes at the sight of me.
My horse, glad enough to ease his speed, fell into a walking pace, and I let the reins drop on his neck as I hung my head in sheer dejection. Karasch came to my side in astonishment then.
“Is anything the matter, Burgwan?”
“Nothing that you can help, Karasch.”
“We are going to Samac, are we not?”
“I don’t know—and don’t care. Don’t worry me with your questions.”
“Mademoiselle has been taken there, hasn’t she? Are you not going to her help?”
“She has gone there of her own will and wish. She is quite safe; you need have no fears for her.”
“How do you know she is safe?”