"Mean? God knows. I am tired to the soul, Carus. I have no pride left--not a shred--nothing of resentment. I fancy I love--yes--and the mad fancy drags me on, trailing pride, shame, and becoming modesty after me in the dust." She laughed, flinging her arm out in an impatient gesture: "What is this war to me, Carus, save as it concerns him? In Canada we wag our heads and talk of rebels; here we speak of red-coats and patriots; and it's all one to me, Carus, so that no dishonor touches the man I love or my own Canada. Your country here is nothing to me except for the sake of this one man."
She turned toward me from her saddle.
"You may be right, you rebels," she said. "If aught threatened Canada, no loyalty to a King whom I have never seen could stir me to forsake my own people. That is why I am so bitter, I think; not because Sir Frederick Haldimand is kin to me, but because your people dared to storm Quebec."
"Those who marched thither march no more," I said gravely.
"Then let it be peace betwixt us. My enmity stops at the grave--and they march no more, as you say."
"Do you give me your friendship again, Elsin?"
She raised her eyes and looked at me steadily.
"It was yours before you asked me, Carus. It has always been yours. It has never faltered for one moment even when I said the things that a hurt pride forced from me." She shook her head slowly, reining in. I, too, drew bridle.
"The happiest moment of my life was when I knew that I had been the instrument to unlock for you the door of safety," she said, and stripped the glove from her white fingers. "Kiss my hand and thank me, Carus. It is all I ask of friendship."
Her hand lay at my lips, pressed gently for an instant, then fell to her side.
"Dear, dear Elsin!" I cried, catching her hand in both of mine again, crushing it to my lips.
"Don't, Carus," she said tremulously. "If you--if you do that--you might--you might conceive a--a regard for me."
"Lord, child!" I exclaimed, "you but this moment confessed your fancy for a man of whose very name and quality I stand in ignorance!"
She drew her hand away, laughing, a tenderness in her eyes I never had surprised there before.
"Silly," she said, "you know how inconstant I can be; you must never again caress me as you did--that first evening--do you remember? If we do that--if I suffer you to kiss me, maybe we both might find ourselves at love's mercy."