She did not answer.

The ghost of a smile—­a grim one—­altered the Colonel’s expression for a second, then faded.  He looked at Ailsa curiously.  Then: 

“Have you anything to tell me that—­perhaps I may be entitled to know about, Ailsa?”

“No.”

“I see.  I beg your pardon.  If you ever are—­perplexed—­in doubt—­I shall always——­”

“Thank you,” she said faintly. . . .  “And—­I am so sorry——­”

“So am I. I’m sorrier than you know—­about more matters than you know, Ailsa—­” He softly smote his buckskin-gloved hands together, gazing at vacancy.  Then lifted his head and squared his heavy shoulders.

“I thought I’d come when I could.  The chances are that the army will move if this weather continues.  The cavalry will march out anyway.  So I thought I’d come over for a few moments, Ailsa. . . .  Are you sure you are quite well?  And not overdoing it?  You certainly look well; you appear to be in perfect health. . . .  I am very much relieved. . . .  And—­don’t worry.  Don’t cherish apprehension about—­anybody.”  He added, more to himself than to her:  “Discipline will be maintained—­must be maintained.  There are more ways to do it than by military punishments, I know that now.”

He looked up, held out his hand, retained hers, and patted it gently.

“Don’t worry, child,” he said, “don’t worry.”  And went out to the porch thoughtfully, gazing straight ahead of him as his horse was brought up.  Then, gathering curb and snaffle, he set toe to stirrup and swung up into his saddle.

“Ormond!” he called.

Berkley rode up and saluted.

“Ride with me,” said Colonel Arran calmly.

“Sir?”

“Rein up on the left.”  And, turning in his saddle, he motioned back his escort twenty paces to the rear.  Then he walked his big, bony roan forward.

“Ormond?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“You ran the guard?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Why?”

Berkley was silent.

The Colonel turned in his saddle and scrutinised him.  The lancer’s visage was imperturbable.

“Ormond,” he said in a low voice, “whatever you think of me—­whatever your attitude toward me is, I would like you to believe that I wish to be your friend.”

Berkley’s expression remained unchanged.

“It is my desire,” said the older man, “my—­very earnest—­desire.”

The young lancer was mute.

Arran’s voice fell still lower: 

“Some day—­if you cared to—­if you could talk over some—­matters with me, I would be very glad.  Perhaps you don’t entirely understand me.  Perhaps I have given you an erroneous impression concerning—­matters—­which it is too late to treat differently—­in the light of riper experience—­and in a knowledge born of years—­solitary and barren years——­”

He bent his gray head thoughtfully, then, erect in his saddle again: