open air--he had slept so much of the
stifling afternoon--and now, hearing the sound of women's voices on
the dark veranda nearest him, he veered to the left, passed around the
blackened ruin of his own quarters and down along the rear of the line
just as the musician of the guard was sounding "Lights Out"--"Taps."

And then a sudden thought occurred to him. Sentries began challenging
at taps. He was close to the post of No. 5. He could even see the
shadowy form of the sentry slowly pacing toward him, and here he stood
in the garb of a private soldier instead of his official dress. It
caused him quickly to veer again, to turn to his right, the west, and
to enter the open space between the now deserted quarters of the
permanent commander and those of Captain Wren adjoining them to the
north. Another moment and he stopped short. Girlish voices, low and
murmurous, fell upon his ear. In a moment he had recognized them. "It
won't take me two minutes, Angela. I'll go and get it now," were the
first words distinctly heard, and, with a rustle of skirts, Kate
Sanders bounded lightly from the piazza to the sands and disappeared
around the corner of the major's quarters, going in the direction of
her home. For the first time in many eventful days Blakely stood
almost within touch of the girl whose little note was even then
nestling in an inner pocket, and they were alone.

"Miss Angela!"

Gently he spoke her name, but the effect was startling. She had been
reclining in a hammock, and at sound of his voice struggled suddenly
to a sitting posture, a low cry on her lips. In some strange way, in
the darkness, the fright, confusion,--whatever it may have been,--she
lost her balance and her seat. The hammock whirled from under her, and
with exasperating thump, unharmed but wrathful, the girl was tumbled
to the resounding floor. Blakely sprang to her aid, but she was up in
the split of a second, scorning, or not seeing, his eager,
outstretched hand.

"My--Miss Angela!" he began, all anxiety and distress, "I hope you're
not hurt," and the outstretched hands were trembling.

"I _know_ I'm not," was the uncompromising reply, "not in the least;
startled--that's all! Gentlemen don't usually come upon one that
way--in the dark." She was panting a bit, but striving bravely,
angrily, to be calm and cool--icy cool.

"Nor would I have come that way," then, stupidly, "had I known you
were--here. Forgive me."

How could she, after that? Sh