She hastened downstairs, passed the closed door of the improvised dining-room, traversed the hall to the porch, and, lifting the skirts of her gray garb, sped across the frozen yards to the kitchen.

The cook had gone; fire smouldered in the range; and a single candle guttered in its tin cup on the table.

Beside it, seated on a stool, elbows planted on both knees, face buried in his spread fingers, sat the lancer, apparently asleep.

She cast a rapid glance at the table.  The remains of the food satisfied her that he had had his hot dinner.  Once more she glanced at him, and then started to withdraw on tiptoe.

And he raised his head; and she gazed into the face of Berkley.

Neither stirred, although in the shock of discovery she felt that she would drop where she stood.  Then, instinctively, she reached for the table’s edge, rested against it, hand clutching it, fascinated eyes never leaving his face.

He got up leisurely, walked toward her, made an abrupt turn and faced her again from the window recess, leaning back against the closed wooden shutters.

Her heart was beating too rapidly for her to speak; she tried to straighten her shoulders, lift her head.  Both sank, and she looked down blindly through the throbbing silence.

Berkley spoke first; but she could not answer him.  Then he said, again, lightly: 

“A woman’s contempt is a bitter thing; but they say we thrive best on bitter medicine.  Do you wish me to go, Ailsa?  If so, where?  I’ll obey with alacrity.”

She raised her dazed eyes.

“W-was that you, with Captain Hallam’s horse—­there in the starlight—­when I spoke?”

“Yes.  Didn’t you know me?”

“No.  Did you know me?”

“Of course.  I nearly fell out of my saddle.”

She strove hard to collect herself.

“How did you know it was I?”

“How?” He laughed a short, mirthless laugh.  “I knew your voice. 
Why shouldn’t I know it?”

“Did—­had anybody told you I was here?”

“No.  Who is there to tell me anything?”

“Nobody wrote you?—­or telegraphed?”

He laughed again.  “Nobody has my address.”

“And you never—­received—­receive—­letters?”

“Who would write to me?  No, I never receive letters.  Why do you ask?”

She was silent.

He waited a moment, then said coolly:  “If you actually have any interest in what I’m doing—­” and broke off with a shrug.  At which she raised her eyes, waiting for him to go on.

“I went into an unattached company—­The Westchester Horse—­and some fool promised us incorporation with the 1st Cavalry and quick service.  But the 1st filled up without us and went off.  And a week ago we were sent off from White Plains Camp as K Company to”—­he bit his lip and stared at her—­“to—­your friend Colonel Arran’s regiment of lancers.  We took the oath.  Our captain, Hallam, selected me for his escort to-night.  That is the simple solution of my being here.  I didn’t sneak down here to annoy you.  I didn’t know you were here.”