He halted. At a nod from her, two troopers standing beside their quietly browsing horses, cocked carbines. The sharp, steel click of the locks was perfectly audible through the din of the cannon.
“Then, like a flash his hand fell to his holster, and it was empty.”
The signal officer looked at her; and her face was whiter than his.
“You are Warren Moray—I think,” she said.
His eyes glimmered like a bayonet in sunlight; then the old half-gay, half-defiant smile flickered over his face.
“Special Messenger,” he said, “you come as a dark envoy for me. Now I understand your beauty—Angel of Death.”
“Are you Major Moray?” She could scarcely speak.
He smiled, glanced at the two troopers, and shrugged his shoulders. Then, like a flash his hand fell to his holster, and it was empty; and his pistol glimmered in her hand.