the least she could do was to tell him that he was now first in her life of all men—­that much she could say; and perhaps he had always been, she did not know; perhaps, now that the half-gods were gone, it was at last the coming of the—­the—­She was deeply agitated now; her voice was trembling; she faltered, and she turned suddenly, sharply, and with a little catch in her breath, her lips and eyes opening slowly—­her first consciousness, perhaps, a wonder at his strange silence—­and dazed by her own feeling and flushing painfully, she looked at him for the first time since she began to talk, and she saw him staring fixedly at her with a half-agonized look, as though he were speechlessly trying to stop her, his face white, bitter, shamed, helpless, Not a word more dropped from her lips—­not a sound.  She moved; it seemed that she was about to fall, and Crittenden started toward her, but she drew herself erect, and, as she turned—­lifting her head proudly—­the moonlight showed that her throat was drawn—­nothing more.  Motionless and speechless, Crittenden watched her white shape move slowly and quietly up the walk and grow dim; heard her light, even step on the gravel, up the steps, across the porch, and through the doorway.  Not once did she look around.

* * * * *

He was in his room now and at his window, his face hard as stone when his heart was parching for tears.  It was true, then.  He was the brute he feared he was.  He had killed his life, and he had killed his love—­beyond even her power to recall.  His soul, too, must be dead, and it were just as well that his body die.  And, still bitter, still shamed and hopeless, he stretched out his arms to the South with a fierce longing for the quick fate—­no matter what—­that was waiting for him there.

IX

By and by bulletins began to come in to the mother at Canewood from her boy at Tampa.  There was little psychology in Basil’s bulletin: 

     “I got here all right.  My commission hasn’t come, and I’ve joined
     the Rough Riders, for fear it won’t get here in time.  The Colonel
     was very kind to me—­called me Mister.

“I’ve got a lieutenant’s uniform of khaki, but I’m keeping it out of sight.  I may have no use for it.  I’ve got two left spurs, and I’m writing in the Waldorf-Astoria.  I like these Northern fellows; they are gentlemen and plucky—­I can see that.  Very few of them swear.  I wish I knew where brother is.  The Colonel calls everybody Mister—­even the Indians.

“Word comes to-night that we are to be off to the front.  Please send me a piece of cotton to clean my gun.  And please be easy about me—­do be easy.  And if you insist on giving me a title, don’t call me Private—­call me Trooper.

     “Yes, we are going; the thing is serious.  We are all packed up now;
     have rolled up camping outfit and are ready to start.