“There has been no secret,” she said. “Will you come in the morning before the columns go out?”
“Yes, it will be early.”
“I'll be watching. If not—he will be there to tell you why.”
Peter turned to the poet. “Watch over her—won't you?”
“You honor me, Mr. Mowbray. All that I can do—be very sure of.”
She went to Samarc's cot and took his hand. Peter saw her face differently, as she leaned. It was one of the mysteries that her tenderness was the face of one woman, her sorrow another.
“Good-by—good-night.”
.... A little later Peter found himself with Samarc's hand in his. He had been sitting by the cot watching the war within the war, head bowed on his free hand. It was a struggle of white and black—of knights and kings, plumes and horses, white and black.... Now the wounded man seemed sending messages through his hand. The lamps were low.
“It's been the day of days, Samarc,” Mowbray said. “You brought me something that I needed very much. I wish I could do as much for you. Let me know, won't you, if I can?... Yes, I'll be right here through the night—”
He heard the tread of soldiers in the hollow-sounding court below—clanking accouterments, heavy steps. There was a halt, a voice, and a long moment before he breathed. It was just a change of sentries, perhaps.