“He is here!” she cried, as soon as she saw the captain’s face. “Is he—is he—how is he?”
“Why, Miss Preston, he is desperately wounded. I can’t imagine how you knew he was here.”
“I knew he was ill, too,” she murmured.
“Then an angel of God must have told you, for it only happened a few days ago, and we have kept it absolutely secret.”
“A little bird told me,” she answered, smiling.
“They almost captured him, but our men heard the firing. Two negroes were dead in the boat, and he had emptied his revolver and was running for the bushes. They shot him as he made a dash for the woods.”
“Does he know anyone?”
“Absolutely no one, and nothing. He is wildly delirious at times, but here we are. Colonel Masters wrote me that you had a right to see him. I shall await your wishes.”
“I will go in now.”
He lay upon a pallet that loving comrades had made in a cabin under the shadow of the pines. His eyes shone wildly, the unnatural brightness intensified the pallor of his emaciated face. As Helen entered, he seemed to know her, and a smile lit up his wan features, a smile which Helen prized above her life. She bent low over his pillow and he whispered, “Helen, darling!”