Colonel Fortescue drew the girl close to his strong beating heart for a brief moment.

“It is a very neat splint,” said Mrs. Fortescue, rising to her feet and bestowing one of her brilliant smiles on Broussard.  “Mr. Broussard is a capital surgeon.”

“And a capital soldier,” said the Colonel, quite clearly.

A smile went around, of which Broussard’s was the brightest and the broadest.  Everybody present knew that the stern Colonel was melting a little toward Broussard.

Then Colonel Fortescue insisted upon mounting Gamechick.

“You are so obstinate,” murmured Mrs. Fortescue, in his ear.  “You are as bent on riding that horse as you say I am on riding Birdseye.”

The Colonel nodded and smiled; the little differences which arose between Mrs. Fortescue and himself were not settled in the presence of others.

Colonel Fortescue was helped on Gamechick’s back and a trooper dismounted and gave his horse to Broussard, the trooper mounting behind a comrade; and without asking anybody’s leave, Broussard rode beside Anita.  As the cavalcade took its way down the road, the darkness of a moonless night descended suddenly, and the difficult way out of the pass was lighted only by the large, bright stars, that seemed so strangely near and kind.  Often, in guiding Anita’s horse along the rocky road, Broussard’s hand touched Anita’s.  Sometimes he dismounted to lead her horse; always he was close to her, and when they spoke it was in whispers.  The rest of the party, including even Colonel Fortescue, in sheer good nature left them to themselves and their happiness.

Soon the party reached the broad, white plain from which a great crown of lights from the fort shone brilliantly in the dusk of the evening.  Half way across the plain they met Beverley Fortescue, riding in search of them.  He glanced at Anita, who blushed deeply, and at Broussard, who smiled openly, and the two young officers exchanged signals, which meant that the Colonel had been outgeneralled, out-footed and “stood on his head,” as Beverley undutifully expressed it at the officers’ club an hour later.

“How did you manage the C. O.?” asked Beverley of Broussard, as they exchanged confidences in the smoking-room.

“I sang to him, like David did to Saul, and got the evil spirit out of him.  You ought to have seen him, sitting before the fire, grinding his teeth with the pain of his ankle, and listening to ’Love’s Old Sweet Song.’  I gave him a genteel suffering of sentimental songs, I can tell you, and never cracked a smile, and no more did the old man”—­this being the unofficial title of all commanding officers.

“Do you think it would work on Major Harlow?” anxiously inquired Beverley, “because this afternoon Sally and I——­”

Here the conference was reduced to whispers, as plans were made to conquer Major Harlow.  Only daughters are highly prized by doting fathers.