"And he still was willing to save my life?"
"You see what he has done," answered the other. "He said that he loved me, that he would risk his life to make me happy. And here we are."
"But not happy," Clif added, half under his breath.
Then again there was a long silence. One cannot say much when one feels as deeply as those two felt then.
Clif thought of the heroism of that quiet Spanish officer. And his heart went out toward him. He fancied what the man's own feelings must be, the loneliness and the desolation.
He had ruined himself, accepted voluntarily disgrace and a shameful death. And all in order that a woman who had been kind to him might be set free and made happy.
Of the death there could be no doubt. When that officer was caught he would have it to face. And he would face it for the sake of Bessie Stuart.
And moreover, he was aiding Clif, his rival, the one who was robbing him of his heart's desire; he was helping him to freedom so that the cadet, when his work in the war was done, might claim the woman he loved as his reward.
That was heroism; not the noisy kind in the battle, which every one sees and applauds, but the quiet kind that knows it is right and cares for no one else.
Clif felt that he could worship such a man as that.