“Eh? Did you say something? No? Oh, very well, ver-y well, sir.... Perfectly correct, Stephen. You have not earned the right to admit further symptoms. No, sir, you have not earned the right to admit them to anybody, not even to yourself. Nor to—her!”
“Doctor!”
“Sir?”
“I have—admitted them.”
“To yourself, Steve? I'm sorry. You have no right to—yet. I'm sorry—”
“I have admitted them—admitted them—to her.”
“That settles it,” said the doctor grimly, “that clinches it! That locks you to the wheel! That pledges you. The squabble is on, now. It's your honour that's engaged now, not your nerves, not your intestines. It's a good fight—a very good fight, with no chance of losing anything but life. You go up the river to Mulqueen's. That's the strategy in this campaign; that's excellent manoeuvring; that's good generalship! Eh? Mask your purpose, Steve; make a feint of camping out here under my guns; then suddenly fling your entire force up the Hudson and fortify yourself at Mulqueen's! Ho, that'll fix 'em! That's going to astonish the enemy!”
His harsh, dry, crackling laughter broke out like the distant rattle of musketry.
The ghost of a smile glimmered in Siward's haunted eyes, then faded as he leaned forward.
“She has refused me,” he said simply.