“Pardon me for mistrusting, as I did, the authenticity of Omatla’s message,” she said. “You spoke of being in trouble, which I could not credit, as you left me so good-spirited this afternoon.”
“Ah, Effie, the clouds come sometimes when one thinks them far away—when the sky is one blue field from horizon to horizon. Trouble is oftentimes an unexpected as it is always an unwelcome guest.”
“You really are in trouble, then?”
“Yes,” and the major looked around to see if the dismissed messenger lingered near.
But Omatla was speeding toward his village.
“To-day, girl—scarce two hours since—I had an altercation with Firman Campbell. You know him—the commandant’s son. In the midst of his cups—inflamed with liquor—he drank a disrespectful toast to you, and I struck him.”
Effie St. Pierre was silent—divining what was coming.
“He staggered under the blow,” continued the Briton, “delivered with my open hand, and when he recovered he came at me with a pistol. It was self-defense, then, girl. I drew my weapon, and, to save my own life, took his.”
A light cry of horror welled from Effie’s throat.
“Oh, why did you kill him, Rudolph?” she cried. “He was but a boy—his father’s favorite, and the pet of the garrison. You could not have disarmed him, and thus kept your hands cleansed of human blood?”