She was not hungry. There was a bucket of water and a soldier’s tin cup on the window sill; and, forestalling him instinctively, she reached over, plunged the cup into the tepid depths and drank.
“I was going to offer you some,” he said, amused; and over the brimming cup she smiled back, shuddering.
“If you care to lie down for a few moments I’ll move that youngster off the sofa,” he suggested.
But fatigue had vanished; she was terribly awake now.
“Can’t you sleep? You are white as death. I’ll call you in an hour,” he ventured gently, with that soft quality in his voice which sounded so terrible in her ears—so dreadful that she sat up in an uncontrollable tremor of revolt.
“What did you ask me?”
“I thought you might wish to sleep for half an hour——”
Sleep? She shook her head, wondering whether sleep would be more merciful to her at this time to-morrow—or the next day—or ever again. And all the time, apparently indifferent and distrait, she was studying every detail of this man; his lean features, his lean limbs, his thin, muscular hands, his uniform, the slim, light sabre which he balanced with both hands across his angular knees; the spurred boots, well groomed and well fitted; the polished cross-straps supporting field glasses and holster.
“Are you the famous Special Messenger?—if it is not a military indiscretion to name you,” he asked, with a glint of humor in his pleasant eyes. It seemed to her as though something else glimmered there, too—the faintest flash of amused recklessness, as though gayly daring any destiny that might menace. He was younger than she had thought, and it sickened her to realize that he was quite as amiably conscious of her as any well-bred man may be who permits himself to recognize the charm of an attractive woman. All at once a deathly feeling came over her—faintness, which passed—repugnance, which gave birth to a desperate hope. The hope flickered; only the momentary necessity for self-persuasion kept it alive. She must give him every chance; she must take from him none. Not that for one instant she was afraid of herself—of failing in duty; she understood that she could not. But she had not expected this moment to come in such a fashion. No; there was more for her to do, a chance—barely a miracle of chance—that she might be mistaken.
“Why do you think I am the Special Messenger, Captain West?”