very morning; of the chivalric love that had been hers, of the
life even that had been hers, and which had been given up for her
so tragically. When she spoke at all, it was to murmur her
sorrow that Hope had exposed herself to danger on her poor
account, and that her life, as far as she loved it, was at an
end. Only once after the men had parted the curtains and asked
concerning her comfort with grave solicitude did she give way to
tears.

``Why are they so good to me?'' she moaned. ``Why are you so
good to me? I am a wicked, vain woman, I have brought a nation to
war and I have killed the only man I ever trusted.''

Hope touched her gently with her hand and felt guiltily how
selfish she herself must be not to feel the woman's grief, but
she could not. She only saw in it a contrast to her own
happiness, a black background before which the figure of Clay and
his solicitude for her shone out, the only fact in the world that
was of value.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the carriage coming to a halt,
and a significant movement upon the part of the men. MacWilliams
had descended from the box-seat and stepping into the carriage
took the place the women had just left.

He had a carbine in his hand, and after he was seated Langham
handed him another which he laid across his knees.

``They thought I was too conspicuous on the box to do any good
there,'' he explained in a confidential whisper. ``In case there