"It's getting cold," she said. "Don't you worry about what people
think. You must remember you're a prisoner now under arrest. You
can't expect the officers to run over here as freely as they used to.
What do you want?" she laughed. "Do you think the colonel should
parade the band and give you a serenade?" For a moment Ranson stared
at her dully, and then his sense of proportion returned to him. He
threw back his head and laughed with her joyfully.

From verandas, barracks, and headquarters, the four hundred pairs of
eyes noted this evidence of heartlessness with varied emotions. But,
unmindful of them, Ranson now leaned forward, the eager, searching
look coming back into his black eyes. They were so close to Mary
Cahill's that she drew away. He dropped his voice to a whisper and
spoke swiftly.

"Miss Cahill, whatever happens to me I won't forget this. I won't
forget your coming here and throwing heart into me. You were the only
one who did. I haven't asked you if you believe that I--"

She raised her eyes reproachfully and smiled. "You know you don't
have to do that," she said.

The prisoner seized the palings as though he meant to pull apart the
barrier between them. He drew a long breath like one inhaling a
draught of clean morning air.

"No," he said, his voice ringing, "I don't have to do that."

He cast a swift glance to the left and right. The sentry's bayonet
was just disappearing behind the corner of the hut. To the four