Mrs. H—— frequently by turns raised her eyes honestly to her questioner’s and dropped them to where, in her lap, the fingers of one hand fumbled with a lone wedding-ring on the other, while she said:—
“Do you think, sir, if you were in my place you would like to give the name of the person you thought had risked his life to bring you word that your husband—your wife—was very ill, and needed your presence? Would you like to do it?”
The officer looked severe.
“Don’t you know perfectly well that wasn’t his principal errand inside our lines?”
“No.”
“No!” echoed the man; “and you don’t know perfectly well, I suppose, that he’s been shot at along this line times enough to have turned his hair white? Or that he crossed the river for the third time last night, loaded down with musket-caps for the rebels?”
“No.”
“But you must admit you know a certain person, wherever he may be, or whatever he may be doing, named Raphael Ristofalo?”
“I do not.”
The officer smiled again.