She did not answer, her hand yet held in mine, so startled by my sudden outburst as to be helpless.

“I must know,” I went on heedlessly, the very touch of her flesh making me reckless.  Our position, the danger of the night, all vanished, and I saw only the whiteness of her face.  Perhaps, had I been able to read her eyes, their expression might have served to curb my tongue, but nothing else could have held me silent.  “I am going away, going into the lines of a hostile army; I may not reach there alive, and, if I do, I may fall in the first battle.  I must tell you the truth first—­I must.  Don’t call it foolish, for it is not.  Dear, I may be a Yankee, but I am also a man, and I—­”

“Oh, stop! please stop!” her fingers clasping me, her form closer.  “I can not—­I will not permit you to say this.  I have no right.  You have made me disloyal to my country; you shall not make me disloyal to all else.  If I should listen I would have no self-respect left.  For my sake be still, and go.”

“But I know you are not indifferent; you cannot conceal the truth.”

“Then be content, be satisfied, be generous.”

“If you will only say one thing.”

“What?”

“That I may come to you—­after the war.”

She stood a moment motionless, and then withdrew her hand.

“That would be equivalent to a hope which I cannot give,” she returned soberly.  “When the war ends I shall probably no longer be Willifred Hardy.”  My heart beat like a trip-hammer; I could hear it in the silence.

“The man yonder?”

She bent her head.

“You will not,” my voice firm with swift conviction.  “If that is all, I am not afraid.  If you loved him would you be standing here even to say a word of farewell?  Whatever pledge may be between you, on your part it is not love.  You cannot deny this—­not to me!  Yes, and you are already beginning to know him.  Remember, I have had to listen to some conversation between you—­I know his style.  Ah, yes, I will go, because I dare not keep you out here longer, but, if God lets me live, I am going to find you again.  Yes, I am; don’t doubt that, little girl.  I could stand back for a real man, but not for Le Gaire; that’s not in human nature.  See, I have your ribbon yet, and am going to wear it.”

“Without my permission?”

I reached out my arm and drew her gently against the fence barrier, so close I could look down into her eyes, gazing up into mine startled by the sudden movement.

“Lip permission, yes—­I prefer to read consent elsewhere.”

“And do you?”

“I shall believe I do.  See, here is the ribbon; will you take it?”

“Of course not.  Why should I care if you have that?  It has no value to me.  But I will not stay and talk longer.  Let me go, Lieutenant! yes, you must.  What shall I do to help—­to help Gerald?”

“Go straight into the house, and report to the guard.  You were walking in the garden for a breath of air, and overheard the struggle.  They will find him.  Good-bye, Billie.”