“You speak it well, Miss—”
“They simply call me Beebee.”
“May God bless and keep you, Beebee, for ever and ay. You have to-day saved my life, and I feel very grateful. A soldier should ever be ready to die. But if he is doomed to be slain he should fall in battle, with his back to the field and his feet to the foe, and not by the hand of wretched bandits, who stab men to death for a few handfuls of gold.”
“You are a soldier then? But you wear no uniform? You carry no arms?”
The wounded officer smiled feebly.
“I have been travelling for my health in your lovely country. It is not usual for British soldiers to wear uniforms or carry swords when not on duty.”
“And your name, brave soldier?”
“How know you I am brave?”
“You must be brave,” said Beebee innocently and naïvely, “because you are handsome, nay, even as beautiful as my father. Yes, you are brave, Mr—”
“My name is Edgar.”