“Then—­then the—­the other one is down here somewhere still,” cowering closer against me, and staring about through the gloom.  “Who—­who are those men?”

“Soldiers coming for Burke’s body—­he was the trooper killed.  Don’t be afraid, dear—­I am here with you now.”

“Oh, I know; I would not be frightened, only it is all so horrible.  I am never afraid when I can see and understand what the danger is.  You do not believe me a silly girl?”

“You are the one woman of my heart, Billie,” I whispered, bending until my lips brushed her ear.  “Don’t draw away, little girl.  This is no time to say such things, I know, but all our life together has been under fire.  It is danger which has brought us to each other.”

“Oh, please, please don’t.”

“Why?  Are you not willing to hear me say ’I love you’?”

Her eyes lifted to mine for just an instant, and I felt the soft pressure of her hand.

“Not now; not here,” and she drew away from me slightly.  “You cannot understand, but I feel as though I had no right to love.  I bring misfortune to every one.  I cannot help thinking of Captain Le Gaire, and it seems as if his death was all my fault.  I cannot bear to have you say that now, here,” and she shuddered.  “When we do not even know how he was killed, or who killed him.  It is not because I do not care, not that I am indifferent.  I hardly know myself.”

“Billie,” I broke in, “I do understand far better than you suppose.  This affair tests us both.  But, dear, I do not know what five minutes may bring.  We shall be attacked again; I expect the alarm every instant, and I may not come out alive.  I must know first that you love me—­know it from your own lips.”

She was silent, it seemed to me a long, long while.  The three soldiers went by carrying the dead body, and Miles came to the foot of the stairs, saw us, and passed along without speaking.  Outside was the dull, continuous roar of musketry, mingled with an occasional yell.  Then she held out both hands, and looked me frankly in the face.

“I am going to be honest,” she said softly.  “I have loved you ever since we were at Jonesboro; I—­love you now.”

I knew this before she spoke; had known it almost from the beginning, and yet her words, the message of her uplifted eyes, gave me a new conception of all love meant.  A moment I gazed into the blue-gray depths where her heart was revealed, and then my arms were about her, and our lips met.  Surely no one ever received the gift of love in stranger situation.  On the stairs leading down into that gloomy cellar where a murderer hid, his victim borne past as we talked; all about us silence and gloom hiding a mysterious crime; above us the heavy feet of men treading the echoing floor, and without the ceaseless roar of battle, volleying musketry, and hoarse shouting.  Yet it was all forgotten—­the fierce fighting of the past, the passions of war, the sudden death, the surrounding peril—­and we knew only we were together, alone, the words of love upon our lips.  I felt the pressure of her arms, and crushed her to me, every nerve throbbing with delight.