"Yes?"
"She is nearly dead, she is in a state of mental collapse, the fight was so desperate, the struggle betwixt love and duty so severe. I fought for duty," and Angel nodded her head at her stupefied listener. "I'm not sure that I shall do it always—I fought well—I turned the tide of battle. Alan Lindsay has accepted his dismissal and his fate. As a small, small alleviation, he may write to me."
There was a long pause, broken only once more by the girl's thin, clear voice inquiring: "What have you got to say to me, Philip?"
He rose with a sudden impulse and came towards her.
"I say—that you are an Angel—a wingless Angel," and he stooped down and kissed her.
"So much for jealousy!" she exclaimed, and laughed.
CHAPTER XXXIV
A REFUGEE
It was seven o'clock in the morning, and under the neem trees at the far side of the parade-ground, Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Gascoigne are walking their horses side by side. The former has completely recovered from her sharp attack of fever, though her face is worn, and bears the trace of suffering. She always appeared to great advantage in the saddle, and sits her powerful black New Zealander with the ease of a finished horsewoman. Mrs. Gordon is Irish.
Angel, looking slim and girlish, is mounted on an excitable chestnut, stud-bred, called Carrots, who keeps snatching alternately at his bridle, and snapping at his neighbour—although they are old friends, were out in camp together, and have travelled many miles in company.