“T was one evening at the mess of the Fusileers, when Powel, too deep in drink to know what he was saying, blurted out something concerning Mrs. Loring’s relations with Sir William.  Poor Charlie was the one man in the force who knew not why such favouritism had been shown in his being put so young into Howe’s regiment.  But that we were eight to one, he’d have killed Powel then and there.  Prevented in that, he set off to slay his colonel, never dreaming he was his own father.  He burst in on me late that night, crazed with grief, and told me how he had found him at his mother’s, and how she had robbed him of his vengeance by a word.  The next day he disappeared, and never news had I of him until that encounter at Greenwood.  Does he not deserve something to sweeten his life?”

“I feel for him deeply,” replied the girl, sadly, “the more that I did him a grave wrong in my thoughts, and by some words I spoke must have cut him to the quick and added pain to pain.”

“Then you will make him happy?”

“No, Sir Frederick, that I cannot.”

“Don’t punish him for what was not his fault.”

“’T is not for that,” she explained.  “Once I loved him, I own.  But in a moment of direst need, when I appealed to him, he failed me; and though now I better understand his resentment against my father and myself I could never bring myself to forgive his cruelty, even were my love not dead.”

“I will not believe it of him.  Hot and impulsive he is by nature, but never cruel or resentful.”

“’T is, alas! but too true,” grieved Janice.

Once again the baronet choked with blood and struggled for a moment convulsively.  Then more faintly he said:  “Wilt give him my love and a good-by?”

“I will,” sobbed the girl.

Nothing more was said for some time, then Mobray asked faintly:  “Is it that I am losing consciousness, or has the firing eased?”

Janice raised her head with a start.  “Why, it has stopped,” she exclaimed.  “What can it mean?”

“That courage and tenacity have done their all, and now must yield.  Poor Cornwallis!  I make no doubt he’d gladly change places with me at this instant.”

Here Mr. Meredith’s voice broke in upon them, as standing in the mouth of the cave he called:  “Come, Janice.  The firing has ceased, to permit an exchange of flags with the rebels.  Up with ye, and get the fresh air while ye can.”

“I will stay here, father,” replied the girl, “and care for—­”

“Nonsense, lass!  Ye shall not kill yourself.  I order ye to come away.”

“Go, Miss Meredith,” begged Mobray.  “You can do naught for me, and—­and—­I would have—­Do as he says.”  His hand blindly groped until Janice placed hers within it, when he gave it a weak pressure as he said, “’T is many a long march and many a sleepless night that the memory of you has sweetened.  Thank you, and good-by.”

Reluctantly Janice came out of the bomb-proof, blinking and gasping with the novelty of sunlight and sea breeze, after the darkness and stench of the last weeks; and her father, partly supporting, led her up the bluff.  It was a strange transformation that greeted her eyes,—­ploughed-up streets and ruins of buildings dismantled by shot or left heaps of ashes by the shell, everywhere telling of the fury of the siege.