“That's why I've been so long bringing it,” the soldier went on. “He said I was not to give it to anyone but you, and I couldn't get off before—they watched me so. I had to borrow these things to come in.”
He was fumbling in the breast of his blouse. The weather was hot, and the sheet of folded paper that he pulled out was not only dirty and crumpled, but damp. He stood for a moment shuffling his feet uneasily; then put up one hand and scratched the back of his head.
“You won't say anything,” he began again timidly, with a distrustful glance at her. “It's as much as my life's worth to have come here.”
“Of course I shall not say anything. No, wait a minute——”
As he turned to go, she stopped him, feeling for her purse; but he drew back, offended.
“I don't want your money,” he said roughly. “I did it for him—because he asked me to. I'd have done more than that for him. He'd been good to me—God help me!”
The little catch in his voice made her look up. He was slowly rubbing a grimy sleeve across his eyes.
“We had to shoot,” he went on under his breath; “my mates and I. A man must obey orders. We bungled it, and had to fire again—and he laughed at us—he called us the awkward squad—and he'd been good to me——”
There was silence in the room. A moment later he straightened himself up, made a clumsy military salute, and went away.
She stood still for a little while with the paper in her hand; then sat down by the open window to read. The letter was closely written in pencil, and in some parts hardly legible. But the first two words stood out quite clear upon the page; and they were in English: