“We are through!” said the Special Messenger, brokenly, breathing fast as she pulled in her mount and turned in the starlight toward the man she rode beside.

At the same moment the column halted; and he drew bridle and looked steadily at her.

All around them was the confusion and turmoil of stamping, panting horses, the clank of metal, the heavy breathing of men.

“Look at me!” she whispered, baring her head in the starlight. “Quick! Look at me! Do you know me now? Look at me—if you—love me!”

A low cry broke from him; she held out both arms to him in the dim light, forcing her horse up against his stirrup.

“If you love me,” she breathed, “say so now!”

Leaning free from his saddle he caught her in his arms, held her, looked into her eyes.

“You?”

“Yes,” she gasped, “the Special Messenger—noncombatant!”

“The Special Messenger? You? Good God!”