Absurdly embarrassed, and not a little angry, Richard obeyed, and Eveleen, lifted from her saddle, led the way into the grateful shade of the little wood. The air was full of the thunder of the guns, and her husband had to shout when he warned her of a projecting root that might have made her trip. They paused in sight of the tents in course of erection, where the surgeons—with what looked like, but doubtless was not, unholy joy—were setting out in order objects of gruesome aspect, and Eveleen turned with a smile.
“How cross y’are, Ambrose! Y’ought be giving me all sorts of farewell messages, don’t you know?”
“I don’t know that there’s much to tell you,” he said gruffly. “Stay near your tent, and do what you are told. If—if things go wrong, old Abdul Qaiyam will take care of you, and get you away if it can be done. You promise to do exactly as he says?”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d consider it dignified to take orders from the bearer, but if it’ll ease your mind, I’ll do it by all means.”
“And—if the worst comes to the worst, you know what to do? You have a pistol?”
“I have that. Sure it’s a pleasure to find you think me capable of doing the proper thing sometimes—if it’s only once in the world.”
“You appear to be in excellent spirits. I congratulate you.”
“Yes, and it is appearance, and nothing else——” furiously. “D’ y’ask me why? Because if I didn’t I’d howl—there! and how would you like that?”
Horribly ashamed, and even more embarrassed than before, Richard felt the absolute necessity of making some acknowledgment, and forced a “Thank you!” from his reluctant lips. Reading rather than hearing it, Eveleen laughed with the tears in her eyes.
“Y’are so English, Ambrose! But don’t let us tease one another any more at all. I’ll be quite happy making a garland to crown you with when you come back victorious. And you’ll be happy knowing I’m quite safe.”