“No,” he whispered, “you mustn't promise—anything. I shouldn't have asked it. After I'm out of this, after the court-martial, then you've got to promise that you'll never, never leave me.”
Miss Cahill knit her hands together and turned away her head. The happiness in her heart rose to her throat like a great melody and choked her. Before her, exposed in the thin spring sunshine, was the square of ugly brown cottages, the bare parade-ground, in its centre Trumpeter Tyler fingering his bugle, and beyond on every side an ocean of blackened prairie. But she saw nothing of this. She saw instead a beautiful world opening its arms to her, a world smiling with sunshine, glowing with color, singing with love and content.
She turned to him with all that was in her heart showing in her face.
“Don't!” he begged, tremblingly, “don't answer. I couldn't bear it—if you said 'no' to me.” He jerked his head toward the men who guarded him. “Wait until I'm tried, and not in disgrace.” He shook the gate between them savagely as though it actually held him a prisoner.
Mary Cahill raised her head proudly.
“You have no right. You've hurt me,” she whispered. “You hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” he cried.
She pressed her hands together. It was impossible to tell him, it was impossible to speak of what she felt; of the pride, of the trust and love, to disclose this new and wonderful thing while the gate was between them, while the sentries paced on either side, while the curious eyes of the garrison were fastened upon her.
“Oh, can't you see?” she whispered. “As though I cared for a court-martial! I KNOW you. You are just the same. You are just what you have always been to me—what you always will be to me.”
She thrust her hand toward him and he seized it in both of his, and then released it instantly, and, as though afraid of his own self-control, backed hurriedly from her, and she turned and walked rapidly away.