“I am out of the race, sir,” said Trevellian, rising. “I shall so announce it to-morrow. I am going with you and fight,” he added.
The General arose quickly: “No, you are not out of it, Jack—not while I am about.”
“What do you mean, General?” He came over and stood face to face with the older man.
“Let us be seated,” said the other. “I will go into detail. Bristow remained with us for supper to-night—”
The younger man was still silent.
“But first, Jack, shall I tell you all?”
Jack nodded.
“It was a little thing—perhaps I should not speak of it. Mrs. Jackson says”—and he smiled—“that for an old Indian fighter I am taking on a lot of romance since I returned, and that you two have caused it. Well, my heart is in this thing, and you know it. But I loved Templeton and I love you, my boy.”
The other bowed his head reverently.
“The girl loves you, Jack; I know it. I know when a woman loves. She is wretched to-night. Why, didn’t I see her when she came home—in spite of Bristow, everybody—everything—with her face set like a flint monument in grief. To-night she was weeping in her room. Mrs. Jackson told me—by God, but you have broken her heart, and you must tell me, Jack.”