“Yes, Miss Bob.”
“Who looked after you when you were wounded, and cooked for you, and wrote your letters to your wife?”
“Miss Bob, for goodness sake don’t tell me any of those things now. The Colonel’s away, and there are just a few of us left to guard the prisoners and the camp. ’Tain’t right, Miss Bob.”
“You said that there was nothing that you would not do for me,” went on Bob inexorably.
“And I meant it,” said the poor fellow. “I know what you mean. I know that’s your brother. But you must not ask it of me. Please, Miss Bob.”
“I’m only going to ask you to turn your back for ten minutes,” said Bob.
“And his knife,” whispered Jeanne tremblingly. “Get his knife, Bob.”
“Turn your back for ten minutes,” repeated Bob, “and lend me your knife.”
“For the love of mercy, Miss Bob,” pleaded Johnson, “don’t ask this of me. It means worse than death to me. It is a betrayal of trust.”
“Your knife, Johnson,” and Bob held out her hand. “What would your wife think of your refusing me anything?”