That afternoon even--sweetly fair as Miss McDonald undoubtedly appeared--he had looked upon her without the throb of a pulse, as he might upon a picture.

She was not for him even to admire--she was Major McDonald's daughter, whom he had been sent to guard.

That was all then.
Yet he knew that somehow it was different now--the personal element had entered unwelcomed, into the equation.

Sitting there in the dark, Gonzales' body crumpled on the floor at his feet, and Moylan lying stiff and cold along the back seat, with this girl grasping his sleeve in trust, she remained no longer merely the Major's daughter--she had become _herself_.

And she did not seem to care and did not seem to realize that there were barriers of rank, which under other circumstances must so utterly separate them.