“I'm afraid,” she said gently, almost deprecatingly, “that there is no questioning the finding of the court-martial. Garth must have lost his head at the unexpectedness of the attack. And panic is a curious, unaccountable kind of thing, you know.”
“I don't believe it,” reiterated Sara stubbornly.
Elisabeth bent forward.
“My dear,” she said, “there is no possibility of doubt. Garth was wounded; they brought him in afterwards—shot in the back! . . . Oh! It was all a horrible business! And the most wretched part of it all was that in reality they were only a few stray tribesmen whom our men had encountered. Perhaps Garth thought they were outnumbered—I don't know. But anyway, coming on the top of all that had gone before, the surprise attack in the darkness broke his nerve completely. He didn't even attempt to make a stand. He simply gave way. What followed was just a headlong scramble as to who could save his skin first! I shall never forget Garth's return after—after the court-martial.” She shuddered a little at the memory. “I—I was engaged to him at the time, Sara, and I had no choice but to break it off. Garth was cashiered—disgraced—done for.”
Sara's drooping figure suddenly straightened.
“You—you—were engaged to Garth?” she said in a queer, high voice.
“Yes”—simply. “I had promised to marry him.”
Sara was silent for a long moment. Then—
“He never told me,” she muttered. “He never told me.”
“No? It was hardly likely he would, was it? He couldn't tell you that without telling you—the rest.”