"I think I can stand up," he said, cheerfully; "lend me your arm, Theodora."
Dode's arm was strong-nerved as well as fair; she helped him rise, and stood beside him as he went to the door, for he walked unsteadily. He took his hand from her shoulder instantly,—did not look at her: followed with his eye the black line of the fretted hills, the glimmer of the distant watch-fires. The path to the West lay through the Rebel camps.
"It is a long trail out of danger," he said, smiling.
"You are going? I thought you needed rest."
Calm, icy enough now: he was indifferent to her. She knew how to keep the pain down until he was gone.
"Rest? Yes. Where did you mean I should find it?"—facing her, sudden and keen. "Where am I to be sheltered? In your home, Theodora?"
"I thought that. I see now that it was a foolish hope, Douglas."
"How did you hope it? What brought you here?"—his voice thick, tremulous with passion. "Were you going to take me in as a Sister of Charity might some wounded dog? Are pity and gratitude all that is left between you and me?"
She did not answer,—her face pale, unmoving in the moonlight, quietly turned to his. These mad heats did not touch her.
"You may be cold enough to palter with fire that has burned you, Theodora. I am not."