His eyes, sad, penetrating, doubting,—­yet self-doubting, too,—­searched her very soul.  Unflinchingly the dark orbs looked into his,—­even pityingly; for she quickly spoke again: 

“Captain, do come into the breakfast-room and have some coffee.  You have not breakfasted, I’m sure.”

He raised his hand as though to repel her offer,—­even to put her aside.  He must understand her.  He could not be hoodwinked in this way.

“Pardon me, Miss Renwick, but did you hear nothing strange last night or early this morning?  Were you not disturbed at all?”

“I?  No, indeed!” True, her face had changed now, but there was no fear in her eyes.  It was a look of apprehension, perhaps, of concern and curiosity mingled, for his tone betrayed that something had happened which caused him agitation.

“And you heard no shots fired?”

“Shots!  No!  Oh, Captain Chester! what does it mean? Who was shot?  Tell me!”

And now, with paling face and wild apprehension in her eyes, she turned and gazed beyond him, past the vines and the shady veranda, across the sunshine of the parade and under the old piazza, searching that still closed and darkened window.

“Who?” she implored, her hands clasping nervously, her eyes returning eagerly to his face.

“It was not Mr. Jerrold,” he answered, coldly.  “He is unhurt, so far as shot is concerned.”

“Then how is he hurt?  Is he hurt at all?” she persisted; and then as she met his gaze her eyes fell, and the burning blush of maiden shame surged up to her forehead.  She sank upon a seat and covered her face with her hands.

“I thought of Mr. Jerrold, naturally.  He said he would be over early this morning,” was all she could find to say.

“I have seen him, and presume he will come.  To all appearances, he is the last man to suffer from last night’s affair,” he went on, relentlessly,—­almost brutally,—­but she never winced.  “It is odd you did not hear the shots.  I thought yours was the northwest room,—­this one?” he indicated, pointing overhead.

“So it is, and I slept there all last night and heard nothing,—­not a thing. Do tell me what the trouble was.”

Then what was there for him to say?  The colonel’s footsteps were heard upon the stair, and the colonel, with extended hand and beaming face and cheery welcome, came forth from the open door-way: 

“Welcome, Chester!  I’m glad you’ve come just in time for breakfast.  Mrs. Maynard won’t be down.  She slept badly last night, and is sleeping now.  What was the firing last night?  I did not hear it at the time, but the orderly and old Maria the cook were discussing it as I was shaving.”

“It is that I came to see you about, colonel.  I am the man to hold responsible.”

“No prisoners got away, I hope?”

“No, sir.  Nothing, I fear, that would seem to justify my action.  I ordered Number Five to fire.”