"Going into camp. Yorkville."
Berkley said: "Do you want a damned fool?"
"The companies are full of fools. . . . We can stand a few first-class men. Come up to camp to-morrow, friend. If you can pass the surgeons I guess it will be all right."
And he prodded his tired horse forward along the slowly moving column of fours.
CHAPTER X
Her hatred and horror of him gave her no peace. Angry, incensed, at moments almost beside herself with grief and shame and self-contempt, she awaited the letter which he must write—the humble and hopeless effort for pardon which she never, never would answer or even in her own soul grant.
Day after day she brooded, intent, obsessed, fiercely pondering his obliteration.
But no letter came.
No letter came that week, nor Monday, nor at the end of the next week, nor the beginning of the next.
Wrath, at night, had dried her eyes where she lay crying in her humiliation; wrath diminished as the days passed; scorn became less rigid, anger grew tremulous. Then what was lurking near her pillow lifted a pallid head. Fear!