The sob that had been clutching at her throat escaped, in spite of herself. "Lahore!" she murmured. "It was all so beautiful at Lahore!"
"Don't cry about it, darling. It will be just as beautiful again, in time. Sit down on the floor—here, close to me. I can't get a sight of you any other way."
She sat down, but in such a position that he had only a scant view of her tear-disfigured face. He pushed the damp ringlets back from her forehead. In his eyes it was her misfortune, rather than her fault, that she should be so inexorably chained to her own trouble.
Her spirit and her love revived under the magic of his touch. She caught his hand and pressed it against her burning cheek. It was cool and steady and sustaining—the hand of a brave man.
"Poor child," he said gently. "I'm an uncomfortable sort of husband for you. But little accidents of this kind will happen to soldiers. Don't say you wish you hadn't married this one!" And he smiled.
"No—no. But, Theo, did you get all these wounds and things trying to save the Boy?"
"Yes; more or less."
"And it wasn't a scrap of use?"
"No. One had the satisfaction of killing the men who did for him. That was all!"