"God! man, but you're hard!"
"I'm kind to the home people, and I'm just with you—am I not?"
"Yes; oh, yes; but to bear it in silence—never to be able to meet one of the men of the mess without the dead haunting shadow of it on me; to leave the Service—that's the worst of all—never to be able to fight for England again as a soldier, or redeem myself—as a man!"
He rose from the bed and went over to the opposite wall, flinging his bent arm against it and leaning forward, his face hid. Stewart watched him from the bed, his eyes reflecting a great pity. If Trevelyan knew half of what his judgment cost him! If Trevelyan only knew how gladly he was dying in his stead! If only Trevelyan knew that he was more kind than cruel!
Through the window, into the absolute quiet of the room, came the hurrying of feet and the neighing of horses. The Colonel was sending out a squad of armed men to strike to the heart of the native trouble. Somewhere in the distance a bugler was playing.
Trevelyan turned, his back to the wall, his arms flung out.
"Isn't there any other way?"
Stewart struggled to a reclining position, supporting himself on one arm, and he summoned all his love and all his mercy.
"You injured me," he said. "Mackenzie says I can't pull through the day—but if I should, I'm injured for life. I have a right to judge you. There is no other way."
The music of the bugle rose, and swelled, and then melted away.