“You a soldier! Poltroon! Coward!”
“Whe-ew! the little creature can call hard names, too. Well, come! one kiss for a cheap ransom, and I let you go! What! Not one kiss? Very well; what is not freely yielded must be boldly rifled! What the deuce——” And despite her frenzied struggles the “ransom” was seized, and Grace, furious at the indignity, was set upon her feet.
“For shame, ensign! How dare you? Go directly and ask the young lady’s pardon,” said the commanding officer, who had just that instant reached the scene.
The delinquent addressed touched his hat to his superior officer and said:
“I beg yours, lieutenant. If the bird had not flown, the falcon would not have flown!” and repeating the gesture of subordination, he turned to obey. Going up and standing before Grace, who gave him a furious look, he took off his cap, revealing a very finely turned head, bowed profoundly, and said:
“Young lady, Ensign Dawson humbly begs your pardon; and all the more humbly, because, poor wretch! he cannot repent! nor even—hardened sinner that he is—promise never to do so again. For if ever the opportunity should offer, son of perdition that you know him to be! he would be sure to repeat the offense. Under such unpromising prospects, you will deign to stretch out the sceptre of grace, whose touch is pardon to the poor devil—William Dawson?”
“‘William Dawson.’” The words were echoed by a low, thrilling, impassioned voice, that did not come from Grace, whose lovely countenance, as she listened to the ensign’s apology, underwent the most ludicrous series of phases; rage, curiosity, admiration, pride—all struggled for the supremacy a moment, and then, shocked at detecting in herself the slightest indication of relenting toward such unpardonable and atrocious impudence, she turned and walked away in haughty silence. Lieutenant King stepped after her to offer a more suitable apology. At the same instant Clare Hartley left the side of her friend, and went to soothe her.
And thus Margaret Helmstedt and the young ensign were left alone, standing a few yards apart.
He stood watching with laughing eyes the retreating form of Grace.
But Margaret’s face was a study. Her thrilling, passionate voice it was that had echoed his name at the instant of hearing it. When that name first struck her ear, she had started and clutched her breast with both hands, as one who had received a shot in the heart. And, since that moment, she had been standing transfixed, white and still, with burning gaze fixed upon the young soldier. Presently her steadfast gaze attracted the attention of the man, who raised his eyes to hers. The meeting of those mutual glances did not dissolve, but changed the spell under which she labored.