He followed as lustily until he had caught her. They laughed splendidly.
“My grandfather,” he laughed, “the Virginia ranger, you remember, was too proud to call for help when he fought his last fight within a hundred yards of the pickets of his own regiment.”
“Brassid, I love that!” she cried breathlessly, going to his side. “What happened to him?”
“He was killed. But when they found him he had five dead Indians to his credit, while his hands were clutched upon the throat of another.”
“That’s why you adore him, isn’t it? Otherwise you would probably never have heard of him. That is what makes us live in the memories of those who love us—just that one little thing, courage!”
“No. There is another and greater thing,” said Brassid.
She looked up in her questioning way.
He smiled affectionately.
“Love,” said Brassid.
She shook her head: