"You saved me," she murmured, with parched lips. "How did you save me?"
"You were like another Beatrice," he whispered,—"you led me through hell!"
Face to face at last, after all the misunderstandings, Beatrice saw him as he was. The terrors of the day were temporarily forgotten, as when one wakes from a horrible dream to a new joy. Something stirred in the girl's heart and sprang, full-fledged, into exultant being. The light in her eyes confused him, and he turned his face away.
"It was nothing," he said diffidently,—"only a running fight—that's all. When the history of to-day is written, it will be a single paragraph—no more. Two officers and thirty-six regulars killed in action, two women and twelve children—a mere handful. No one will know that a civilian was so fortunate as to save the woman he loved. It is a common thing—not worth the writing."
Beatrice, still transfigured, put her hands upon his shoulders; but, though he trembled at her touch, he kept his face turned away.
"Don't thank me," he said unsteadily. "I can't bear it. It is nothing. Perhaps I've proved that I'm not——"
The girl put her fingers on his lips. "You shall not say it!" she cried. "With all my heart I ask you to forgive me—you have covered me with shame."
He turned and looked down into her eyes. "Shame," he repeated; "no, not you. Forget it, Bee; it is nothing. A single paragraph, that is all—which has to do with the soldiers, not with me."
"My soldier!" she said in a new voice, "my captain—my king—listen! No better, braver fight was ever made. The thirty-six who were killed in action have done no more than you; and some day, when they write it all, they will say a civilian fought like a soldier to save the life of the woman who loved him!"