"Flower, yes, the flower of the life of the West--that's what I mean,"
he said. "You are like an army marching. When I look at you, my blood
runs faster. I want to march too. When I hold your hand I feel that
life's worth living--I want to do things."

She drew her hand away rather awkwardly. She had not now that command of
herself which had ever been easy with the men of the West, except,
perhaps, with Abe Hawley when--

But with an attempt, only half-meant, to turn the topic, she said: "You
must be starting if you want to get through to-night. If the redcoats
catch you this side of Barfleur Coulee, or in the Coulee itself, you'll
stand no chance. I heard they was only thirty miles north this
afternoon. Maybe they'll come straight on here to-night, instead of
camping. If they have news of your coming, they might. You can't tell."

"You're right." He caught her hand again. "I've got to be going now.
But Nance--Nance--Nancy, I want to stay here, here with you; or to take
you with me."

She drew back. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Take me with you--me--
where?"

"East--away down East."

Her brain throbbed, her pulses beat so hard. She scarcely knew what to
say, did not know what she said. "Why do you do this kind of thing? Why
do you smuggle?" she asked. "You wasn't brought up to this."

"To get this load of stuff through is life and death to me," he answered.