“You said––you said, the end––”
He hesitated, as if he dared not meet his thoughts.
“You said––See,” she fumbled hastily at her bosom, “see, I have kept it.”
She was holding something up to him. In the dim light he could not make it out. He took it and held it up. It was the dried stem and the crumbling blossom of a daisy. For a moment he kept it there, then, while he looked, he reached into his pocket and drew out the other.
“Yes,” he said, “yes––” His voice trembled; his hand shook. Her hair had fallen again, and 382 she was trying to fasten it back. He looked at her, almost fiercely, but now her eyes were hidden. “We will go to Frontenac;” he said; “we will go to Frontenac, you and I. But they shall not get you.” He caught the hands that were braiding her hair, and held them in his rough grip. “It is too late. Let them break my sword, if they will, still they shall not get you.”
Her head dropped upon his hands, and for the second time since those days at Onondaga, he felt her tears. For a moment they were motionless; he erect, looking out to the pole-star and over the water that stretched far away to the stone fort, she sobbing and clinging to his scarred hands. Then a desperate look came into his eyes, and he dropped on one knee and caught her shoulders and held her tightly, close against him.
“See,” he said, with the old mad ring in his voice, “see what a soldier I am! See how I keep my trust! But now––but now it is too late for them all. I am still a soldier, and I can fight, Valerie. And God will be good to us. God grant that we are doing right. There is no other way.”
“No,” she whispered after him; “there is no other way.”