She liked him, and frankly told him so, not as she would dismiss an inferior with kindness, but as though he was an equal, as though he was a gentleman.
Somehow the very tone of her voice, the clinging touch of her hand, sent the blood pumping through his veins.

Something besides duty inspired him; he was no longer merely a soldier, but had suddenly become transformed into a man.

Years of repression, of iron discipline, were blotted out, and he became even as his birthright made him.

"Molly McDonald," "Molly McDonald," he whispered the name unconsciously to himself.

Then his eyes caught the distant flicker of Indian fire, and his teeth locked savagely.
There was something else to do besides dream.