“I have had an accident, Colonel Falconer. I have been shot in the shoulder.”
He recoiled with a cry of dismay, and she continued, in a low but distinct voice:
“Stay here by me, and—I—will—tell you all—about it. I am not going to die, they say, although it—might—be—better if I were.”
“Pansy, you must be raving! You do not mean that,” he exclaimed, in alarm, and with such a tender look that she exclaimed remorsefully:
“Ah, how good you are to me! But I do not deserve it, for I have deceived you shamefully, and when I have confessed my sin you will—cast me off—you will never—speak—to—poor—Pansy again!”
“Now I am quite sure that you are raving. You have done nothing, my precious wife, for which I could visit you with such harsh punishment as that,” exclaimed her husband fondly, as he bent over her and smoothed back with loving hands the curling locks that strayed over her blue-veined brow.
A heavy sigh drifted over the lips that were pale with pain, and Pansy murmured sadly:
“I am not raving. Although I am in great pain from the wound in my shoulder, I know quite well what I am saying. I have deceived you, my kind, noble husband, and when you know all you will hate me.”
“Nonsense!” he replied cheerily, and, clasping her cold little hand warmly and closely in his, he murmured reassuringly:
“Come, let us have that dreadful confession, my pet, that your foolish alarms may be speedily dissipated.”