"You think your presence necessary, likely to benefit him?" he said questioningly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"He has been wounded in our service," she said. "These men seem to expect much of my nursing—I who have never nursed. I hardly see a way to refuse graciously."
Again her father made his little obeisance of assent.
"I could charge myself with an explanation," he said gravely. "There is no reason for you to go against your wishes. I fear there is little prospect of our being of real help."
Then a sudden throb of protest surged up in her. The vision of the dark cellar and of the fevered lips which called constantly upon her name became vivid, more vivid than before. To her own amazement she realized that she wanted to go, that the thought of those two horsemen riding out into the wild with their message of repulse had become abhorrent to her. She felt suddenly pitying, protective. The feminine, indeed, the maternal, instinct gripped her.
The blood rose to her cheeks.
"I should prefer to go," she said quietly.
Van Arlen made a little gesture of finality.
"The sooner, then, the better," he said, and moved briskly towards his own cabin, summoning the steward to his councils as he went.