“So—after all—you have forgotten. And my romance is dead.”
She did not answer, intent now on every word, every shade of his expression. And, as she looked, through the numbness of her desperation, hope stirred again, stealthily.
“Are you a friend?” Her voice scarcely sounded at all.
“Friends die for each other,” he said. “Do you expect that of me?”
The silence between them became terrible; and at last he broke it with a bitter laugh:
“You once turned a boy’s life to romance—riding through it—out of it—leaving scars on his brow and heart—and on his lips the touch of your own. And on his face your tears. Look at me once more!”
Her breath came quicker; far within her somewhere memory awoke, groping blindly for light.
“Three days we followed you,” he said. “On the Pennsylvania line we cornered you; but you changed garb and shape and speech, almost under our eyes—as a chameleon changes color, matching the leaf it hides on.... I halted at that squatter’s house—sure of you at last—and the pretty squatter’s daughter cooked for us while we hunted you in the hills—and when I returned she gave me her bed to sleep on——”
Her hand caught at her throat and she half rose, staring at him.
“Her own bed to sleep on,” he repeated. “And I had been three days in the saddle; and I ate what she set before me, and slept on her bed—fell asleep—only a tired boy, not a soldier any longer.... And awoke to meet your startled eyes—to meet the blow from your revolver butt that made this scar—to fall back bewildered for a moment—half-stunned—Messenger! Do you know me now?”