The Sergeant looked at her a moment. What he saw in her eyes touched his very soul.
“Very well,” he said. “Right face! Fall out the prisoner!”
Thorne stepped out in front of the ranks.
“Now, Miss,” said the Sergeant; “be quick about it.”
“No!” said Wilfred sternly.
“Oh, Wilfred!” cried Caroline, laying her hand on his arm. “Let her speak to him, let her say good-bye.”
There was an instant’s pause. Wilfred looked from Caroline’s flushed, eager face, to Edith’s pale one. After all, what was the harm? He nodded his head, but no one moved. It was the Sergeant who broke the silence.
“The lady,” he said, looking at Thorne, and pointing at Edith. As he spoke, he added another order. “Matson, take your squad and guard the windows. Prisoner, you can go over to the side of the room.”
The Sergeant’s purpose was plain. It would give Edith Varney an opportunity to say what she had to say to Thorne in a low voice if she chose, without the possibility of being overheard. The initiative must come from the woman, the man realised. It was Edith who turned and walked slowly across the room, Thorne followed her more rapidly, and the two stood side by side. They were thus so placed by the kindness of the veteran that she could speak her words, and no one could hear what they were.
“One of the servants,” began the girl in a low, utterly passionless and expressionless voice, “Jonas, has taken the bullets from the guns. If you will drop when they fire, you can escape with your life.”