De Vigne sat quite still without moving a
muscle, but I saw in his face the death-like pallor
I had seen there on his marriage-day. Happily for
him, at that moment an orderly came to the door
with a despatch from head-quarters to Sabretasche,
and De Vigne, rising, bid us good night, and went
out into the storm of pitiless, drenching, driving
rain to seek his own tent.
The next morning a mail came in : there were some letters from Violet, by the flush that rose on the Colonel's impassive face as he received his epis- tles, and there were more than a dozen for De Vigne, some from men who really liked him, some from Leila Puifdoff*, and women who liked to write to one of the most distinguished men of the famous Light Brigade. He read them pour samuser. The last he took up, struck him keener than a sabre's thrust — it was in Alma's handwriting. Twenty- four hours before he would have seized it, hoping against hope for an explanation of that mystery which had robbed him so strangely and suddenly of her. But now, sceptical of all good, credulous of all evil, he never for a moment doubted, or dreamed of doubting, Carlton's story. Circum- stantial evidence, damned her, and with that insane haste which had cost him so much all his life long, without waiting or pausing, allowing her no
