He laughed again, harshly, but apparently puzzled by her attitude.
She came nearer, paler in her suppressed excitement.
"Private Ormond," she faltered, "the hour that you fail under fire is the hour when I—shall be able to—forget—you. Not—until—then."
Neither moved. The slow, deep colour mounted to the roots of his hair; but she was white as death.
"Ailsa."
"Yes."
And suddenly he had dropped to one knee, and the hem of her gray garb was against his lips—and it was a thing of another age that he did, there on one knee at her feet, but it became him as it had become his ancestors. And she saw it, and, bending, laid her slim hands on his head.
After a long silence, her hands still resting on his dark hair, she found voice enough to speak.
"I know you now."
And, as he made no answer: