“Were about?” she echoed, scornful of all deceit. “Surely I heard shots as I came through the orchard?” “One fire has been exchanged,” he reluctantly admitted. “And Captain Wayne has been wounded?”
I was not aware until that moment that she had even so much as noticed my presence.
“Very slightly, madam.”
“His opponent escaped uninjured?”
Caton bowed, glanced uneasily toward me, and then blurted forth impulsively: “Captain Wayne fired in the air, madam.”
She never glanced toward where I stood, yet I instantly marked the quick droop of her eyes, the faint pink that overspread her cheek. This slight confusion, unnoted save by eyes of love, was but momentary, still it was sufficient to apprise me that she both understood and approved my action.
“A most delightful situation, surely,” she said clearly and sarcastically. “One would almost suppose we had wholly reverted to barbarism, and that our boasted civilization was but mockery. Think of it,” and the proud disdain in her face held us silent, “not six hours ago that house yonder was the scene of a desperate battle. Within its blood-stained rooms men fought and died, cheering in their agony like heroes of romance. I saw there two men battling shoulder to shoulder against a host of infuriated ruffians, seeking to protect helpless women. They wore different uniforms, they followed different flags, by the fortune of war they were enemies, yet they could fight and die in defence of the weak. I thanked God upon my knees that I had been privileged to know such men and could call them friends. No nobler, truer, manlier deed at arms was ever done! Yet, mark you, no sooner is that duty over—scarcely are their dead comrades buried—when they forget every natural instinct of gratitude, of true manliness, and spring at each other's throat like two maddened beasts. I care not what the cause may be—the act is shameful, and an insult to every woman of this household. Even as I came upon the field voices were clamoring for another shot, in spite of the fact that one man stood already wounded. War may be excusable, but this is not war. Gentlemen, you have fired your last shot on this field, unless you choose to make me your target.”
I would that I possessed a picture of that scene—a picture which would show the varied expressions of countenance as those scornful words lashed us. She stood there as a queen might, and commanded an obedience no man among us durst refuse. Brennan's flushed face paled, and his lips trembled as he sought to make excuse.
“But, Edith,” he protested, “you do not know, you do not understand. There are wrongs which can be righted in no other way.”
“I do not care to know,” she answered coldly, “nor do I ever expect to learn that murder can right a wrong.”