"Then is my love very far from perfect," came the ready answer. "I was in a very torment of anxiety. A good man groaning out his life with a lump of lead in his breast, and a broken wall across his legs, is bad enough, but she"—and Trafford pointed to Gloria, who was engaged in tending a poor, disfigured wretch who had been moved from the stricken castle—"my God, Bernhardt, I was a coward!"
"Women don't feel pain as much as men," said Bernhardt brutally. "Our anxiety on their account is a purely selfish sentiment based on the lowest instincts."
"Your theory would be preposterous even if we were animals," replied Trafford. "As applied to humanity it is blasphemy. I fancy your wound hurts you."
"Aye, my wound hurts me—not the wound in my arm—I don't feel that—but the wound in my spirit. I am not one to sit down under defeat."
"Then what do you propose to do?"
"Push on to the Brunvarad!"
"And play Meyer's game for him! The road is held with every rifle and quick-firer they can cram into it."
"We can get through at a price," said Bernhardt between his teeth.
"I don't think we could get through at any price," rejoined Trafford with conviction. "If we go on we are beaten men; if we stay here we may make a draw of it."
Bernhardt uttered an exclamation of contempt.