Caroline’s low exclamation of pity struck a responsive chord in Wilfred’s heart. He nodded gravely, and bit his lips. He did not feel particularly happy over the situation, evidently, but the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the men. They came into the room in a double line, Thorne walking easily between them. They entered the room by the door, marched down it, came back, and ranged themselves opposite the stacks of arms.
“Halt!” cried the Sergeant. “Right Face! Take arms! Carry arms! Left face! Forward—March!”
Edith had not taken her eyes off Thorne since he had reëntered the room. She had watched him as if fascinated. He had shot at her one quick, searching glance, and then had kept his eyes averted, not because he would not like to look at her, but because he could not bear himself like a man in these last swift terrible seconds, if he did.
As the men moved to carry out their last order, the girl awoke to her surroundings.
“Wait,” she said. “Who is in command!”
“I am, miss,” answered the Sergeant.
Arrelsford, who had entered with the soldiers, started at this, but he said nothing.
“I’d like to speak to the—the prisoner,” continued Edith.
“I’m sorry, miss,” answered the Sergeant respectfully, but abruptly; “but we haven’t the time.”
“Only a word, Sergeant,” pleaded the girl, stepping close to him, and laying her hand on his arm.