Your pickets were to be drawn by friends of mine, who were waiting for me beyond your lines.

Well, I lingered here when I saw you arrive--lingered to write you that note.
And--I was too late!" But Brant had been watching her varying expression, her kindling eye, her strange masculine grasp of military knowledge, her soldierly phraseology, all so new to her, that he scarcely heeded the feminine ending of her speech.

It seemed to him no longer the Diana of his youthful fancy, but some Pallas Athene, who now looked up at him from the pillow.

He had never before fully believed in her unselfish devotion to the cause until now, when it seemed to have almost unsexed her.

In his wildest comprehension of her he had never dreamed her a Joan of Arc, and yet hers was the face which might have confronted him, exalted and inspired, on the battlefield itself.