It was a thought brightly gleaming in the darkness; it was a thought which fitted that man and girl like a garment skilfully made. It called to them and beckoned with its recklessness, the adventure of it, its audacity, its quality of knight-errantry. To be a knightly champion of his country, riding a steed of the air in the lists of the heavens! That was indeed an enterprise in tune with the soul of Potter Waite, in tune with the not less turbulent soul of Hildegarde von Essen.
“Thank you,” he said, presently, his voice vibrant. “It’s worth a try.... I’m sorry,” he said, slowly, “that I didn’t know, didn’t understand. I must have hurt you. I wouldn’t have hurt you for worlds.... Last night I called you a traitor. If saying I am sorry—”
“How could you know?”
“If only the rest—that other thing—were a lie, too.” He ground his teeth, turned from her suddenly. “Good-by,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
“To get my ’plane ready.”
“And me? Are you going to leave me here alone—with him?” She motioned toward Herman von Essen. “Oh, you mustn’t!... I can’t stay! Take me with you.”
“No,” he said, “you can’t stay here.... Where can I take you? Minutes are precious.”
“Anywhere—away from here.... I don’t care. Don’t waste time with me.... Let me go with you—to the hangar. I’ll be all right there.”
“Get your wraps.”