“Shall I get you a letter through the lines? I can.”
“You are a strange man, Mr. Wynne, and an honest gentleman. No, you cannot do me this service. I thank you.”
“Then good-by; and it is love to the end, Darthea.”
“I wish you would go,” she said faintly.
“Good-by,” I repeated, and rose.
“Come and see me some day when you can,—not now, not this time,—and do not think ill of me.”
“Think ill of you! Why should I?”
“Yes! yes!”
I did not understand her, but I saw that she was shaken by some great emotion. Then she spoke:
“I have given my word, Mr. Wynne, and I do not lightly break it. Perhaps, like some men, you may think that women have no such sense of honour as men believe to be theirs.”