“Yes, Señor.”
The officer folded the paper, unread, and thrust the pin back through the folds. The enamel on the badge glistened in the camp light.
“Keep the Tagalog here,” he said to the men, “until I come back;” and walked across the camp to where the hospital tents had been set up.
“Where is Mrs. Smith?” he asked of the surgeon in charge.
“Taking care of the men who were wounded this afternoon.”
“Will you tell her that I want to see her alone in your tent, here, and then see that no one else comes in?”
“Mrs. Smith,” he said, when the nurse came in, “I have something here for you—a letter. It has just been brought into camp, by a native who did not know that you were here and who wanted to be sent to Manila to find you. It is not very strongly sealed, but no one has read it since it was brought into camp.”
He gave the bit of paper to the nurse, and then turned away to stand in the door of the tent, that he might not look at her while she read it. Enough of the nurse’s story was known in the army now so that the officer could guess something of what this message might mean to her.
A sound in the tent behind the officer made him turn. The woman had sunk down on the ground beneath the surgeon’s light, and resting her arms upon a camp stool had hid her face.
A moment later she raised her head, her face wet with tears and wearing an expression of mingled grief and joy, and held out the letter to the officer.