At every step she was screaming in the very agony of gladness:
"Stand firm! Hold them! Help is coming! Help is coming!"
A last look through the window at the end of the hail had revealed to her the most glorious of visions.
Red and green troops were pouring through the dismantled gateway, their horses surging over the ugly ground-rifts and debris as if possessed of the fabled wings.
She had seen the rear line in the storming forces hesitate and then turn to meet the whirlwind charge of the cavalrymen. Her brother was out there and all was well. She was crying the joyous news from the head of the grand stairway when Truxton King caught sight of her.
Smoke writhed about her slim, inspiriting figure. Her face shone through the drab fog like an undimmed star of purest light. He bounded up the steps toward her, drawn as by magnet against which there was no such thing as resistance.
He was powder-stained and grimy; there was blood on his face and shirt front.
"You are shot," she cried, clutching the post at the bend in the stairs. "Truxton! Truxton!"
"Not even scratched," he shouted, as he reached her side. "It's not my—" He stopped short, even as he held out his arms to clasp her to his breast. "It's some one else's blood," he finished resolutely. She swayed toward him and he caught her in his arms.
"I love you—oh, I love you, Truxton!" she cried over and over again. He was faint with joy. His kisses spoke the adoration he would have cried out to her if emotion had not clogged his throat.