When battles are fought it is not uncommon for men to die." Gregory crossed slowly to the window, and stared out at the trees of the park which autumn was fast stripping.
"If he were among the fallen--if he were dead then indeed the matter would be at an end." "Aye, and well ended." "You forget Cynthia," Gregory reproved him.
"Forget her?
Not I, man.

Listen." And he jerked his thumb in the direction of the wainscot.
To the two men in that rich chamber of Castle Marleigh was borne the sound--softened by distance of a girlish voice merrily singing.
Joseph laughed a cackle of contempt.
"Is that the song of a maid whose lover comes not back from the wars ?" he asked.
"But bethink you, Joseph, the child suspects not the possibility of his having fallen." "Gadswounds, sir, did your daughter give the fellow a thought she must be anxious.

A week yesterday since the battle, and no word from him.
I dare swear, Gregory, there's little in that to warrant his mistress singing." "Cynthia is young--a child.

She reasons not as you and I, nor seeks to account for his absence." "Troubles not to account for it," Joseph amended.
"Be that as it may," returned Gregory irritably, "I would I knew." "That which we do not know we may sometimes infer.

I infer him to be dead, and there's the end of it." "What if he should not be ?" "Then, my good fool, he would be here." "It is unlike you, Joseph, to argue so loosely.