Brennan's face blazed; chagrin, anger, disappointment fairly infuriated him, and he seemed to lose all self-control. “This is some cowardly trick!” he roared, glaring about him as if seeking some one upon whom he could vent his wrath. “Damn it, I believe my pistol was fixed to overshoot in order to save that fellow. I never missed such a shot before.”
Moorehouse broke in upon his raving, so astounded at these intemperate words as to stutter in his speech.
“D-do you d-dare to in-insinuate, Major Brennan” he began, “that I have—” he paused, his mouth wide open, staring toward the shed. Involuntarily we glanced in that direction also, wondering what he saw. There, in the open doorway, as in a frame, dressed almost entirely in white, her graceful figure and fair young face clearly defined against the dark background, stood Edith Brennan.
CHAPTER XXXVII. — THE LAST GOOD-BYE
She exhibited no outward sign of agitation as she left her position and slowly advanced toward us. However fiercely her heart may have beaten she remained apparently calm and composed. Never before had I felt so completely dominated by her womanly spirit, while her very presence upon the field hushed in an instant the breathings of dispute. She never so much as glanced at either Brennan or myself, but ignored us totally as she drew near. Daintily lifting her skirts to keep them from contact with the weeds under foot, her head poised proudly, her eyes a bit disdainful of it all, she paused before Caton.
“Lieutenant,” she questioned in a clear tone which seemed to command an answer, “I have always found you an impartial friend. Will you kindly inform me as to the true meaning of all this?”
He hesitated, hardly knowing what to reply, but her imperious eyes were upon him—they insisted, and he stammered lamely:
“Two of the gentlemen, madam, were about to settle a slight disagreement by means of the code.”