“But you haven’t it with you, now?” The girl’s eyes were very wistful. To her imagination, there was a potent charm in this lying symbol, which had been the companion of the man whom she adored.
“Oh, yes, I have it,” Dick replied, carelessly. He reached a hand into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, and brought forth the feather, which he held out to the girl.
She accepted it reverently, but an expression of dissatisfaction showed on her face.
“It—it isn’t exactly a white feather now,” she suggested. “It is really quite shockingly dirty. But I shall have it cleaned, and then set in a case or a frame of gold, decorated with—”
Dick interrupted, somewhat indignantly.
“You can’t expect a man living for months in the way I did to keep a white feather immaculate. And, anyhow, it is not so very dirty. Besides, I couldn’t help the blood—could I?”
“The blood!” Dora exclaimed, startled, and her face whitened. “What blood, Dick?”
“Mine. You see, it lay right alongside the place where that bullet scraped my side.”
“Your blood!” The girl’s face was wonderfully alight. “And I said that I would have it cleaned. Why, the idea seems sacrilege! No, this feather shall never be cleaned from those precious stains, sweetheart. The white feather—and now it is scarlet with the blood of my hero. Ah, this scarlet feather shall be set in purest gold, and bordered with jewels. It shall be a shrine for my worship, Dick. And—”