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Loot'nent Blakely's compliments, sir, and he'll be ready in ten minutes," for Blakely and his man, seeing instantly the condition of things, had freshened the little fire and begun unloading supplies.
His horse, or rather the troop horse designated for his use, had been fed and groomed in the late afternoon, and then saddled at seven o'clock and brought over to the rear of the quarters by a stable orderly. There had been some demur at longer sending Blakely's meals from mess, now reduced to an actual membership of two.
It was now Blakely's turn to redden to the brows. "You surely will not prevent my going to join my troop, now that it is in contact with the enemy," said he. "All I need is a few hours' sleep. I can start at seven." "You cannot, with my consent, Mr. Blakely," said the captain dryly.
He had ordered that Blakely should be brought to his own quarters because there he could not be reached by any who were unacceptable to himself, the post commander. There were many things he wished to know about and from Blakely's lips alone. He could not stoop to talk with other men about the foibles of his wife.
"Yes, Dad." "Blakely's mother has acted very handsomely toward us, considering " "Very handsomely, CONSIDERING," I agreed. "And we must try to meet her half way." "Yes, Dad." "No doubt she had her reasons for behaving as she did." "I'm sure of it." "You see, my dear, I've understood the situation from the very first." "You sweet old simpleton, of course you have!
It was after three, noted Private Mullins, of that first relief, when from the rear door of the major's quarters there emerged two forms in feminine garb, and, there being no hindering fences, away they hastened in the dim starlight, past Wren's, Cutler's, Westervelt's, and Truman's quarters until they were swallowed up in the general gloom about Lieutenant Blakely's.
Angela, daughter of civilization, under safe escort, had been sent on ahead, close following the courier who scurried homeward with the news. Natzie, daughter of the wilderness, could not be driven from the sight of Blakely's litter. The dumb, patient, pathetic appeal of her great soft eyes, as she watched every look in the doctor's face, was something wonderful to see.
With Graham she was exceeding wroth for daring to defend such persons as Lieutenant Blakely and "that Indian squaw." It was akin to opposing weak-minded theories to positive knowledge of facts. She had seen with her own eyes the ignorant, but no less abandoned, creature kneeling at Blakely's bedside, her black head pillowed close to his breast.
"How delightfully boyish the dear Duke is," observed Mrs. Sanderson-Spear, beaming at him from across the table. "So ingenious, I mean so ingenuous," assented a languid lady from San Francisco. "But we must stand up; toute le monde is standing up, my dear." And so it was, standing up to drink our healths, Blakely's and mine, while Blakely held my hand under the table. "Bravo!" cried the Duke.
"I know it, yes," said Mrs. Plume, "though I, too, have never seen her. She died the winter after it was taken. It is Mr. Blakely's sister, Ethel," and Mrs. Plume sat gazing at the sweet girl features, with strange emotion in her aging face. There was something some story behind all this that Plume could not fathom, and it nettled him. Perhaps he, too, was yielding to a fit of nerves.
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