ets to this one supreme, sublime
encounter? His heart was high, his voice rang clear and exultant, his
eyes flashed joy and fire and defiance in the face of a thousand deaths
two weeks ago. But here in the presence of a slender girl he can do
naught but falter and stammer and tremble.

Crack, crack, spatter, clatter, and crash comes the little carriage and
team whirling into the San Luis. He hears it now. He knows what it means
to him--Brent back and the pent-up words still unspoken! It nerves him
to the test, it spurs him to the leap, it drives the blood bounding
through his veins, it sends him darting round the table to her side,
penning her, as it were, between him and the big bamboo chair. And now
her heart, too, is all in a flutter, for the outer works were carried in
his impetuous dash, the assailant is at the very citadel.

"Marion!" he cried, "tell me, was there--tell me, there _was_ no
engagement! Tell me there _is_ a little hope for me! Oh, you are blind
if you do not see, if you _have_ not seen all along, that I've loved you
ever since the first day I ever saw you. Tell me--quick!"

Too late. Up comes Brent on the run, and Marion springs past the
would-be detaining arm. "Where's Mrs. B.?" pants the warrior. "Hullo,
Stuyvie! I was afraid you'd got the news and gone out in a cab. M'ria, I
want my belt and pistol!"

"_Where_ you going?" bursts in the lady of the house--the spoons
forgotten.

"Out to San Pedro! It's only three miles. Our fellows are going to drive
'em out of Guadaloupe woods. Ready, Sty? Of course you want to see it.
Drive'll do you good, too. Come on."

"Indeed, you don't stir a step, Colonel Brent!--not a step! What
business have you going into action? You did enough fighting forty years
ago." Brent, deaf to her expostulation, is rushing to the steps,
buckling his belt on the run, but "M'ria" grabs the slack of the Khaki
coat and holds him. Stuyvesant springs for his hat. It has vanished.
Marion, her hands behind her, her lips parted, her heart pounding hard,
has darted to the broad door to the salon, and there, leaning against
the framing, she confronts him.

At the rear of the salon Thisbe has grappled Pyramus and is being pulled
to the head of the stairs; at the head, Beatrice, with undaunted front,
concealing a sinking heart, defies Benedick.

"My hat, please," he demands, his eyes lighting with hope and promise of
victory.

"You have no right," she begins. "You are still a patie