"I am sorry you are so nervous, dear," he said, noticing that her hand trembled.
"How can I help it, Harold?" she asked. "It is no light ordeal to be the only lady, and Sir George tells me he wants to open the Fort in the old English fashion with a quadrille."
"If you cannot bear it, darling, I will ask him to omit the dance."
"Oh, no, not for the world! I will be all right after we start. How do I look?"
"Just as you are—the dearest and sweetest woman that ever lived," was his answer, as he pressed upon her lips a passionate kiss.
Helen threw her arms around his neck, and something like a sob broke the stillness, but it was only for a moment.
"I am better now," she said, looking up with a smile. A couple of glittering tears were hanging between her lashes, but he kissed them away.
As Helen and Harold entered the large room, all the gentlemen arose. But there were only seven in the whole company—the two lieutenants, the two captains, the doctor, the chaplain and the commander of all.
Sir George was attired with rigid punctiliousness, as though attending a ball at St. James. A massive gold chain, which he rarely wore, encircled his shoulders above his epaulets, while medals presented by his Sovereign, for services in eastern wars, adorned his breast. With the gallantry of an old courtier he bowed to Helen and offered his arm.
"Permit me to have the honor," he said, and accepting his escort, together they walked around the room.