There was so much meaning obvious in these last words that Clara’s face colored like a sunset.

“I thought soldiers never indulged in such feelings,” continued the unmollified Aunt Maria.

“Soldiers are but men,” observed Thurstane, flushing through his sunburn.

“And men are weak creatures.”

Thurstane grew still redder.  This old lady (old in his young eyes) was always at him about his manship, as if it were a crime and disgrace.  He wanted to give her one, but out of respect for Clara he did not, and merely moved uneasily in his seat, as men are apt to do when they are set down hard.

“How soon must you go?  Where?” demanded Clara.

“As soon as I can close my accounts here and turn over my stores to my successor.  Company I is at Fort Yuma on the Colorado.  It is the first post in California.”

“California!” And Clara could not help brightening up in cheeks and eyes with fine tints and flashes.  “Why, I am going to California.”

“We will see,” said Aunt Maria, still holding the fates in her fist.

Then came the story of Grandfather Munoz’s letter, with a hint or two concerning the decay of the Van Diemen fortune, for Clara was not worldly wise enough to hide her poverty.

Thurstane’s face turned as red with pleasure as if it had been dipped in the sun.  If this young lady was going to California, he might perhaps be her knight-errant across the desert, guard her from privations and hardships, and crown himself with her smiles.  If she was poor, he might—­well, he would not speculate upon that; it was too dizzying.

We must say a word as to his history in order to show why he was so shy and sensitive.  He had been through West Point, confined himself while there closely to his studies, gone very soon into active service, and so seen little society.  The discipline of the Academy and three years in the regular army had ground into him the soldier’s respect for superiors.  He revered his field officers; he received a communication from the War Department as a sort of superhuman revelation; he would have blown himself sky-high at the command of General Scott.  This habit of subordination, coupled with a natural fund of reverence, led him to feel that many persons were better than himself, and to be humble in their presence.  All women were his superior officers, and the highest in rank was Clara Van Diemen.

Well, hurrah! he was to march under her to California! and the thought made him half wild.  He would protect her; he would kill all the Indians in the desert for her sake; he would feed her on his own blood, if necessary.

As he considered these proper and feasible projects, the audacious thought which he had just tried to expel from his mind forced its way back into it.  If the Van Diemen estate were insolvent, if this semi-divine Clara were as poor as himself, there was a call on him to double his devotion to her, and there was a hope that his worship might some day be rewarded.