omfort, her mind seemed always
elsewhere, often where her eyes wandered, to some private whose
suffering was greater than his.

"I wish I had been the worst wounded man here," he said to her one day.

"Why?" she asked bringing her eyes back to him. And then before he could
answer, she added: "Your wound is bad enough; you will not get well
until you are more quiet. Be a little more patient."

"Patient!" he cried, half raising himself and falling back with a groan.
"You are cruel. Patient! with the vision of delight always floating
before me, never turning back to look at me or smile upon me. Patient!
in torment. Perhaps you would be. Submission is not a constitutional
virtue of mine."

"It's being a virtue at all," returned Elizabeth, "depends upon whether
we submit to men or to God." If any other lips had spoken the Divine
name, Edmonson would have sneered openly. As it was, he lay silent,
looking out at the speaker through half-veiled eyes. This tantalizing
woman always turned his words into impersonalities. Her power had roused
his will to its utmost to make her feel his own. How far had he
succeeded, that she would condescend to stay with him when there was no
one else to do it and he needed attention? It was because the surgeon
would soon be here to look after his wounds and would need help, that
she was sitting now, fanning him gently and glancing toward the door of
the tent.

"You are very impatient to have Waters come," he said.

"Yes, a great many others need me."

"Not half so much as I do," he began. "Your presence soothes me," he
added hastily.

"It is the sort of effect that a nurse ought to have," she answered.

He was silent again. He would have given half the expected years of his
life to know if ever so little of her indifference were feigned. He gave
himself an impatient toss. Why had he come to this siege at all? He was
not sure now that if he had accomplished his object, or should yet do
it, the reward would come. He had known women that in Elizabeth's place
would like to show their power of torture; but she scarcely deigned to
glance at him, and tortured him a thousand times more. Why had Archdale
thrown his arm about so clumsily and saved his life? So good an
appointment was not likely to make itself again; he must have a hand in
framing the next. And if worst came to worst as to absence of chance, he
could still pick a quarrel over the clumsiness by challenging it as
intention. Yet he w