“Lee,” said a stifled voice, “pull off my boots.”
Lee rose, hesitated a moment, then removed the boots, and threw his jacket over his feet. She walked to the window, peered through the slats, then returned to the bed.
“The United States did lick England,” she said.
Cecil was on his elbow in an instant.
“It did not,” he cried hoarsely. “If you were a boy I’d thrash you.”
“I finished United States history last term. We licked you in the Revolution and in 1812.”
Cecil was erect on the edge of his bed, glaring at her out of his attenuated eye, over the rising sun of his nose. “I tell you you didn’t,” he growled. And his bandages slipped, and his wounds bled.
Lee flung her arms about him in an agony of remorse and pushed him back among the pillows.
“I’m just horrid,” she sobbed; “I don’t know why I said that.” And once more she bathed and bound him.
“Lee,” whispered a weary voice. “Say that you didn’t lick us.”