She exhibited no outward sign of agitation as she left her position and slowly advanced toward us. However fiercely her heart may have beaten she remained apparently calm and composed. Never before had I felt so completely dominated by her womanly spirit, while her very presence upon the field hushed in an instant the breathings of dispute. She never so much as glanced at either Brennan or myself, but ignored us totally as she drew near. Daintily lifting her skirts to keep them from contact with the weeds under foot, her head poised proudly, her eyes a bit disdainful of it all, she paused before Caton.

“Lieutenant,” she questioned in a clear tone which seemed to command an answer, “I have always found you an impartial friend. Will you kindly inform me as to the true meaning of all this?”

He hesitated, hardly knowing what to reply, but her imperious eyes were upon him—they insisted, and he stammered lamely:

“Two of the gentlemen, madam, were about to settle a slight disagreement by means of the code.”

“Were about?” she echoed, scornful of all deceit. “Surely I heard shots as I came through the orchard?” “One fire has been exchanged,” he reluctantly admitted. “And Captain Wayne has been wounded?”

I was not aware until that moment that she had even so much as noticed my presence.

“Very slightly, madam.”

“His opponent escaped uninjured?”

Caton bowed, glanced uneasily toward me, and then blurted forth impulsively: “Captain Wayne fired in the air, madam.”

She never glanced toward where I stood, yet I instantly marked the quick droop of her eyes, the faint pink that overspread her cheek. This slight confusion, unnoted save by eyes of love, was but momentary, still it was sufficient to apprise me that she both understood and approved my action.

“A most delightful situation, surely,” she said clearly and sarcastically. “One would almost suppose we had wholly reverted to barbarism, and that our boasted civilization was but mockery. Think of it,” and the proud disdain in her face held us silent, “not six hours ago that house yonder was the scene of a desperate battle. Within its blood-stained rooms men fought and died, cheering in their agony like heroes of romance. I saw there two men battling shoulder to shoulder against a host of infuriated ruffians, seeking to protect helpless women. They wore different uniforms, they followed different flags, by the fortune of war they were enemies, yet they could fight and die in defence of the weak. I thanked God upon my knees that I had been privileged to know such men and could call them friends. No nobler, truer, manlier deed at arms was ever done! Yet, mark you, no sooner is that duty over—scarcely are their dead comrades buried—when they forget every natural instinct of gratitude, of true manliness, and spring at each other's throat like two maddened beasts. I care not what the cause may be—the act is shameful, and an insult to every woman of this household. Even as I came upon the field voices were clamoring for another shot, in spite of the fact that one man stood already wounded. War may be excusable, but this is not war. Gentlemen, you have fired your last shot on this field, unless you choose to make me your target.”

I would that I possessed a picture of that scene—a picture which would show the varied expressions of countenance as those scornful words lashed us. She stood there as a queen might, and commanded an obedience no man among us durst refuse. Brennan's flushed face paled, and his lips trembled as he sought to make excuse.

“But, Edith,” he protested, “you do not know, you do not understand. There are wrongs which can be righted in no other way.”

“I do not care to know,” she answered coldly, “nor do I ever expect to learn that murder can right a wrong.”

“Murder! You use strong terms. The code has been recognized for centuries as the last resort of gentlemen.”

“The code! Has it, indeed? What gentlemen? Those of the South exclusively of late. That might possibly pardon your opponent, but not you, for you know very well that in the North no man of any standing would ever venture to resort to it. Moreover, even the code presupposes that men shall stand equal at its bar—I am informed that Captain Wayne fired in the air.”

He hesitated, feeling doubtless the uselessness of further protest, yet she permitted him small opportunity for consideration. “Major,” she said quietly but firmly, “I should be pleased to have you escort me to the house.”

These words, gently as they were spoken, still constituted a command. Her eyes were upon his face, and I doubt not he read within them that he would forfeit all her respect if he failed to obey. Yet he yielded with exceeding poor grace.

“As it seems impossible to continue,” he admitted bitterly, “I suppose I may as well go.” He turned and fronted me, his eyes glowing. “But understand, sir, this is merely a cessation, not an ending.”

I bowed gravely, not daring to trust my voice in speech, lest I should yield to the temptation of my own temper.

“Captain Wayne,” she said, glancing back across his broad blue shoulder, and I thought there was a new quality in her voice, the sting had someway gone out of it, “I shall esteem it a kindness if you will call upon me before you depart.”

“With pleasure,” I hastened to reply, my surprise at the request almost robbing me of speech, “but I shall be compelled to leave at once, as my troop is already under orders.”

“I shall detain you for only a moment, but after what you have passed through on our behalf I am unwilling you should depart without realizing our gratitude. You will find me in the library. Come, Frank, I am ready now.”

We remained motionless, watching them until they disappeared around the corner of the shed. Brennan walked with stern face, his step heavy, she with averted eyes, a slight smile of triumph curling her lip. Then Moorehouse stooped and picked up the derringer the Major had thrown away.

“By thunder, but she's right!” he exclaimed emphatically. “I tell you that's a mighty fine woman. Blame me, if she didn't face us like a queen.”

No one answered, and without exchanging another word we walked together to the house. There I found the remnant of my troop standing beside their horses, chaffing with a dozen idle Yankee cavalrymen who were lounging on the wide steps.

The time had come when I must say a final farewell and depart. Not the slightest excuse remained for further delay. I dreaded the ordeal, but no escape was possible, and I entered the house for what I well knew was to be the last time. My mind was gravely troubled; I knew not what to expect, how far I might venture to hope. Why had she desired to see me again? Surely the public reason she offered could not be the real one. Was it to confess that I had won her heart, or to show me by scornful words her indignation at my folly? What should I say, how could I act in her presence? These and a hundred other queries arose to perplex me.

Had she only been free, a maid whose hand remained her own to surrender as she pleased, I should never have hesitated, never have doubted her purpose; but now that could not be. I felt that every word and look between us already bordered upon sin, that danger to both alike lurked in each stolen glance and meeting. Better far we should have parted without further speech. I knew this, yet love constrained me, as it has constrained many another, and I lingered at her wish—a foolish moth fluttering to the flame.

As I knocked almost timidly at the closed library door a gentle voice said, “Come,” and I entered, my heart throbbing like a frightened girl's. She stood waiting me nearly in the centre of that spacious apartment, dressed in the same light raiment she had worn without, and her greeting was calm and friendly, yet tinged by a proud dignity I cannot describe. I believed for an instant that we were alone, and my blood raced through my veins in sudden expectancy; then my eyes fell upon Mrs. Minor comfortably seated in an armchair before the fire, and I realized that she was present to restrain me from forgetfulness. But in very truth my lady hardly needed such protection—her speech, her manner, her proud constraint told me at once most plainly that no existing tie between us had caused our meeting.

“Captain Wayne,” she said softly, her high color alone giving evidence of any memory of the past, “I scarcely thought that we should meet again, yet was not willing to part with you under any misunderstanding. I have learned from Lieutenant Caton the full particulars of your action in connection with Major Brennan. I wish you to realize that I appreciate your efforts to escape a hostile meeting, and esteem you most highly for your forbearance on the field. It was indeed a noble proof of true courage. May I ask, why did you fire in the air?”

Had she not held me so away from her by her manner I should have then and there told her all the truth. As it was I durst not.

“I felt convinced that if my bullet reached Major Brennan it would injure you. I preferred not to do that.”

She bowed gravely, while a kinder look, if I may use that expression, seemed to dominate her face.

“I believed it was for my sake you made the sacrifice.” She paused; then asked in yet lower tones: “Was my name mentioned during your contention—I mean publicly?”

“It was not; Caton alone is aware I refrained because of the reason I have already given you.”

“Your wound is not serious?”

“Too insignificant to be worthy of mention.”

She was silent, her eyes upon the carpet, her bosom rising and falling with the emotion she sought in vain to suppress.

“I thank you for coming to me,” she said finally. “I shall understand it all better, comprehend your motive better, for this brief talk. Whatever you may think of me in the future,” and she held out her hand with something of the old frankness in the gesture, “do not hold me as ungrateful for a single kindness you have shown me. I have not fully understood you, Captain Wayne; indeed, I doubt if I do even now, yet I am under great obligations which I hope some day to be able to requite, at least in part.”

“A thousand times they are already paid,” I exclaimed eagerly, forgetting for the moment the presence of her silent chaperon. “You have given me that which is more than life—”

“Do not, Captain Wayne,” she interrupted, her cheeks aflame. “I would rather forget. Please do not; I did not send to you for that, only to tell you I knew and understood. We must part now. Will you say goodbye?”

“If you bid me, yes, I will say good-bye,” I answered, my own self-control brought back instantly by her words and manner, “but I retain that which I do not mean to forget—your gracious words of invitation to the North.”

She stood with parted lips, as though she struggled to force back that which should not be uttered. Then she whispered swiftly:

“It is not my wish that you should.”

Was there ever such another paradox of a woman?

I knew not how to read her aright, for I scarce ever found her twice the same. Which represented the truth of her character—her cool dignity, her impetuous pride, or that gentle tenderness which befitted her so well? Which was the armor, which the heart of this fair lady of the North? As we rode down the path to the eastward, a snowy handkerchief fluttered for an instant at the library window. I raised my hat in silent greeting, and we were gone.