The loneliness of the girl, here, helpless, alone with him in that wilderness of snow, bore in upon his consciousness with a suddenness that robbed him of all sense of triumph.

He had spoken passionately, recklessly, inspired by her nearness, her dependence upon him.

He had faith that she cared; her eyes, her manner, had told him this, yet even now he could not realize all that was meant by that quiet confession.
The iron discipline of years would not relax instantly; in spite of the boldness of his utterance, he was still the soldier, feeling the chasm of rank.

Her very confession, so simply spoken, tended to confuse, to mystify him.
"Do you mean," he asked eagerly, "that you love me ?" "What else should I mean ?" she said slowly.

"It is not new to me; I have known for a long while." "That I loved you!" "Yes," smiling now.