“Justin! You here! You in this hall of horrors! Oh, I am so sorry!” she exclaimed, in a low and anxious tone.
“And I am so glad! And I thought you would be glad to have me near you,” he cheerfully replied.
“Not here—not in this torture chamber. Oh, Justin! weak and wounded, how will you bear it?”
“Much better than I could bear separation from you, Britomarte,” he earnestly answered.
“Your wound, Justin, how is it? painful?”
“Not more so than I can well endure,” he answered, smiling.
But to her wistful gaze, his white lips and wrung brow almost belied his words.
“They might have sent you to a hospital, at least. It was inhuman to place you here,” she said.
“But, my dearest, they placed me just where I wished to be,” he cheerfully said.
And this was true, so true, that he had feigned a greater strength and a quicker convalescence than he really enjoyed, in order to be sent to the Libby.