from the two young surgeons. Bray was surprised and distressed; he
could not misunderstand her motive.

He had gone on caring for her without suspecting that there was
or had been another man; she had not confided in him during those
weary, pleasant months since they left San Francisco behind them.
To learn the true situation so suddenly and unexpectedly stunned
his sensibilities; he found difficulty in grasping the importance
of the change an hour or two had made. He had fought valiantly,
even exultantly, in the Pass that morning, her face ever before
him, her words of praise the best spoils of the victory, should
they win. He had come down to the village with joy and confidence
in his heart, only to find that he was not, and could never be,
anything to her, while the life or memory of this fallen comrade
stood as a barrier.

Bray's hour following the discovery that she had deliberately sought
out and found this stricken private was the most bitter in his
life. His pride suffered a shock that appalled him; his unconscious
egotism, born of hereditary conquests, revolted against the thought
that his progress toward her heart was to be turned aside by the
intervention of a common soldier in the ranks. Gentleman though he
was, he could not subdue the feeling of exultation that came over
him when she approached with her plea. He knew that it was a base
sense of power that made him feel that he could punish his pride's
offender by either denying or granting her appeal. The attitude of
self-sacrifice appealed to his wounded vanity; he was tempted to
profit by an exhibition of his own pain and generosity.

He went with her into the convent and to the pallet on which was