But Black Brady had done his work very thoroughly, and she was still diligently scrubbing at it with an inadequate piece of cambric when she heard steps behind her, and wheeling round, found herself confronted by Garth himself.

His eyes rested indifferently and without surprise upon the chalked-up words, then turned to Sara’s face inquiringly.

“Why are you doing that?” he asked.  “Is—­cleaning gates the latest form of war-work?”

Sara, her face scarlet, answered reluctantly.

“I didn’t want you to see it.”

A curious expression flashed into his eyes.

“I saw it—­two hours ago.”

“And you left it there?”—­with amazement.

“Why not?  It’s true, isn’t it?”

And in that moment the long struggle in Sara’s heart ended, and she answered out of the fullness of the faith that was in her.

“No!  It is not true!  I’ve been a fool to believe it for an instant.  But I’m one no longer.  I don’t believe it.”  She paused, then, very deliberately and steadily, she put her question.

“Garth—­tell me, were you ever guilty of cowardice?”

“The court-martial thought so.”

Sara’s foot tapped impatiently on the ground.

“Please answer my question,” she said quickly.

But he remained unmoved.

“Elisabeth Durward has surely supplied you with all the information on that subject which you require,” he said in expressionless tones, and Sara was conscious anew of the maddening feeling of impotence with which a contest of wills between herself and Garth never failed to imbue her.

“Garth”—­there was appeal in her voice, yet it was still very steady and determined—­“I want to know what you say about it.  What Elisabeth—­or any one else—­may say, doesn’t matter any longer.”

Something in the quiet depth of emotion in her voice momentarily broke through his guard.  He made an involuntary movement towards her, then checked himself, and, with an effort, resumed his former detached manner.

“More important than anything either I, or Elisabeth, can say, is the verdict of the court,” he answered.

The deadly calm of his voice ripped away her last remnant of composure.

“The verdict of the court!” she burst out. “Damn the verdict of the court!”

“I have done—­many a time!”—­bitterly.

“Garth,” she came a step nearer to him and her sombre eyes blazed into his.  “I will have an answer!  For God’s sake, don’t fence with me any longer! . . .  There have been misunderstandings enough, reticences enough, between us.  For this once, let us be honest with each other.  I pretended I didn’t care—­I pretended I could go on living, believing you to be what—­what they have called you.  And I can’t! . . .  I can’t go on. . . .  I can’t bear it any longer.  You must answer me! Were you guilty?”

He was white to the lips by the time she had finished, and his eyes held a look of dumb torture.  Twice he essayed to answer her, but no sound came.