“Yes.”
“When the moment comes, Landor, I should not like to be taken prisoner.”
“Nor shall you be, Al. There are four good fighting men with you. All old campaigners like—you.” 26
“Yes. I wasn’t thinking of that.” The gray eyes looked away. The man shifted uneasily.
There was a prolonged silence. Each was thinking over old scenes in old campaigns.
“I don’t think I am afraid of much,” the woman said slowly, at last. “Certainly not of death.”
“Don’t talk like that, Al.” The man’s arm linked itself through his wife’s. The woman smiled wistfully up into the strong face bending over her.
“I was thinking, dearest, if death faced us, little Marjorie and me, in any form, we should not like it at the hands of an Indian. We should both prefer it from some one we know and—love.”
Another silence followed, and the sound of machinery was nearer and louder. The man stooped down and kissed the upturned face, and looked long into the beautiful gray depths he loved so well.
“It shall be as you wish, Al—as a last resource. I will go and kiss Marjorie. It is time we were doing.”