When she reached the house she put me into my chair on the veranda, and disappeared. She returned with a glass of Madeira. “You must drink this,” she said, “you are not used to the sun”; and she stood over me until I had done so. Then when the giddiness had passed off and things were clear, “My father tells me,” she continued hurriedly, “that I must ask your pardon. He says that I ought to have taken it for granted that you would keep your word—that nine out of ten English officers—”
“Would do so?” I said stiffly. “We are much obliged to him.”
“And that men can tell very quickly when they can trust one another.”
“As a rule they can.”
“I will bring you some more paper,” she said meekly. “And I beg your pardon.”
“Please don’t say any more,” I replied. “Can you not believe, Miss Wilmer, that I am grateful—most grateful for what has been done for me? And that, enemy as I am, I would not willingly injure the meanest person in this house.”
“I do believe that,” she said in a low voice.
“You do?” I cried, pleased at the concession. “Then surely—”
“But you might have no choice in the matter,” she replied gravely. “Honor—” she paused, looking away from me, apparently in search of a word—“is a two-edged weapon. It protects us to-day, sir. It may wound us to-morrow.”
“If you mean,” I answered, “that after I am exchanged I shall fight against you, it is true. But we can fight without ill will and suffer without rancor. While we observe the rules of the game, we are brothers-in-arms though we are in opposite camps. That is the legacy, Miss Wilmer, that chivalry has left to us.”