“Mr. Hayne, there is something I must tell you before I go.  If no opportunity occur, I’ll write it.”

And those were the words that had been haunting him all the evening, for they were not again alone, and he had no chance to ask a question.  What could she mean?  For years he had been living a life of stern self-denial; but long before his promotion the last penny of the obligation that, justly or otherwise, had been laid upon his shoulders was paid with interest.  He was a man free and self-respecting, strong, resolute, and possessed of an independence that never would have been his had his life run on in the same easy, trusting, happy-go-lucky style in which he had spent the first two years of his army career.  But in his isolation he had allowed himself no thought of anything that could for a moment distract him from the stern purpose to which he had devoted every energy.  He would win back, command, compel, the respect of his comrades,—­would bring to confusion those who had sought to pull him down; and until that stood accomplished he would know no other claim.  In the exile of the mountain-station he saw no women but the wives of his senior officers; and they merely bowed when they happened to meet him:  some did not even do that.  Now at last he had met and yielded to the first of two conquerors before whom even the bravest and the strongest go down infallibly,—­Love and Death.  Suddenly, but irresistibly, the sweet face and thrilling tones of that young girl had seized and filled his heart, to the utter exclusion of every other passion; and just in proportion to the emptiness and yearning of his life before their meeting was the intensity of the love and longing that possessed him now.  It was useless to try and analyze the suddenness and subtilty of its approach:  the power of love had overmastered him.  He could only realize that it was here and he must obey.  Late into the morning hours he lay there, his brain whirling with its varied and bewildering emotions.  Win her he must, or the blackness and desolation of the past five years would be as nothing compared with the misery of the years to come.  Woo her he would, and not without hope, if ever woman’s eyes gave proof of sympathy and trust.  But now at last he realized that the time had come when for her sake—­not for his—­he must adopt a new course.  Hitherto he had scorned and repelled all overtures that were not prefaced by an expression of belief in his utter innocence in the past.  Hitherto he had chosen to live the life of an anchorite, and had abjured the society of women.  Hitherto he had refused the half-extended proffers of comrades who had sought to continue the investigation of a chain of circumstances that, complete, might have proved him a wronged and defrauded man.  The missing links were not beyond recovery in skilful hands; but in the shock and horror which he felt on realizing that it was not only possible but certain that a jury of his comrade officers could deem him guilty of a