of taking an unfair advantage; of keeping the delirious man under his
own eye and ear that he might seek to steal his secret from him; of
plotting with Ygerne to aid in the same end. But, say what they might
outside, they did not come in.

"We'll see which is the greater, his love for me or his hate," the girl
had said. She sat down by the bed, laying her hand softly upon the
bared arm which Drennen had flung out. He turned, looking at her with
frowning eyes. In silence she waited. Sothern, standing by the door,
his eyes watchful as they passed back and forth from her face to
Drennen's, was silent. For a score of seconds Drennen's gaze was
unfaltering. Then, with a little sigh, he drew her hand close to him,
rested his cheek against it and went to sleep. Sothern, looking now at
the girl's face, saw it flush as though with pleasure.

Now she was at the dugout almost as much as Marshall Sothern. The long
hours of the day she spent at the bedside, going to her own room only
when it grew dark. And even in the night, once Sothern sent for her.
Drennen had called for her; had grown violent when she was denied to
him and would not be quieted when Sothern sought to reason with him.
So Ygerne, dressing hurriedly, her sweater about her, came.

"Why do you come to me that way?"

Drennen had lifted himself upon his elbow, calling out angrily.

"What do you mean?" she asked wondering.

"In that miserable sweater!" he cried. "That's good enough for other
women, not for you."

And he made her go back and put on the dress she had worn that night
when she had dined with him. She argued with him but he insisted. He
would have none of her in her sweater.

"Oh, well," she said, and went out. Sothern thought that she had gone
for good. His eyes narrowed and stared speculatively when in a little
she came in again. Drennen smiled, openly approved of the Ygerne whom
he had sought to kiss, took her hands, kissed them and holding them
grew quiet.

He grew stronger almost steadily after that. He had much fever and
delirium, but his wounds healed and he ceased to lose ground as he had
been doing. In his ravings he made much passionate love to Ygerne, his
tones running from the gentleness of supplication to the flame of hot
avowal. In lucid moments of sanity he accepted her presence as a quite
natural condition, too utterly exhausted by the periods of delirium
through which he had passed to ask questions. A few times,