He seized Ailsa’s hand and shook it vigorously.

“Excuse my profanity.  I can’t avoid it when I think of you—­dead!  There, there.  I’m an old fool and you’re a—­younger one.  See if you can find somebody to take you to Azalea.  I want that batch of invalids carefully watched.  Besides, there’s a furlough there for you.  Don’t say one word!  You’re not well, I tell you.  I had to send those invalids back; the place here is atrociously crowded.  Try to find some way of getting to the landing.  And take care of your pretty little self for God’s sake!”

She promised, shook hands with him again, disengaged herself from the crowd around her, turned about to search for Berkley, and caught sight of him near the stables, saddling his horse.  He buckled the last strap as she came up; turned a blank gaze on her, and did not appear to comprehend her question for a moment.  Then, nodding in a dazed way, he lifted her to the saddle in front, swung up behind her, passed one arm around her waist, gathered bridle, and edged his way carefully through the crowd out into the road.

The 3rd Zouaves in heavy marching order filled the road with their scarlet column, moving steadily southward; and Ailsa, from her perch on the saddle, called to Colonel Craig and Major Lent, stretching out her hot little hand to them as she passed.

Engineers blocked their progress farther on, then Wisconsin infantry, young giants in blue, swinging forward in their long loose-limbered stride; then an interminable column of artillery, jolting slowly along, the grimy gunners swaying drowsily on their seats, officers nodding half asleep in their saddles.

“Philip,” she ventured timidly.

“Yes.”

“Is there—­anything—­you wish to tell me?  Anything that I—­perhaps—­have a faint shadow of a right to know?”

For a long time they rode in silence, her question unanswered.  A narrow cart road—­less of a road than a lane—­led east.  He turned his horse into it.

For a moment no sound broke the silence save the monotonous clank of his sabre and the creak of girth and saddle.

“Ailsa!”

“Yes, Phil.”

“Move closer; hold very tight to me; clasp both arms around my neck. . . .  Are you seated firmly?”

“Yes, Phil.”

He encircled her slender body with his right arm and, shaking out the bridle, launched his horse at a gallop down the sandy lane.  Her breath and his mingled as they sped forward; the wind rushed by, waving the foliage on either hand; a steady storm of sand and gravel rained rattling through the bushes as the spurred horse bounded forward, breaking into a grander stride, thundering on through the gathering dusk.

Swaying, cradled in his embrace, her lips murmured his name, or, parted breathless, touched his, as the exquisitely confused sense of headlong speed dimmed her senses to a happy madness.