“I shall share these grapes with my cot-mate over yonder,” he said laughingly. “By the way, Celia, his voice sounded strangely familiar to me a short time ago. Just glance over there and see if he is any one you know.”
I heard the soft rustle of skirts, and, without a smile, looked up into her dark eyes. There was a sudden start of pleased surprise.
“Why,” she exclaimed eagerly, “it is Colonel Curran! Edith, dear, here is the Rebel who pretended to be Myrtle Curran's brother.”
How the hot blood leaped within my veins at mention of that name; but before I could lift my head she had swept across the narrow aisle, and was standing beside me. Wife, or what, there was that within her eyes which told me a wondrous story. For the instant, in her surprise and agitation, she forgot herself, and lost that marvellous self-restraint which had held us so far apart.
“Captain Wayne!” she cried, and her gloved hands fell instantly upon my own, where it rested without the coverlet. “You here, and wounded?”
I smiled up at her, feeling now that my injuries were indeed trivial.
“Somewhat weakened by loss of blood, Mrs. Brennan, but not dangerously hurt.” Then I could not forbear asking softly, “Is it possible you can feel regret over injuries inflicted upon a Rebel?”
Her cheeks flamed, and the audacious words served to recall her to our surroundings.
“Even although I love my country, and sincerely hope for the downfall of her enemies,” she answered soberly, “I do not delight in suffering. Were you in that terrible cavalry charge? They tell me scarcely a man among them survived.”
“I rode with my regiment.”