"Yes; at least I imagine so. We must risk it."
I swung up into the saddle, and resumed my grasp of her horse's rein.
"We'll ride together, but keep your feet free in the stirrups. If your horse misses his footing let go of everything else, and cling to his tail; he'll tow you ashore, and you used to swim."
"So you remember my accomplishments? I am not in the least frightened. Don't worry about me," and she held out her hand. "You'll not find me a bad soldier."
"I am certain of that—not if you are still the same girl I played with."
Her hand was in mine, and was not withdrawn.
"I—hardly think I am," she answered soberly, a little catch in her voice. "I am not a girl at all any more, but I keep something of the same spirit, I hope."
I have never understood what spell there was about her to keep me silent. I had never before lacked audacity, yet I dare not speak the words that were on my lips. Whether the personality of the girl held me embarrassed, or the peculiarity of our relationship, I do not know. Surely there was nothing in her manner, or words, to indicate such a thing, yet the thought had taken firm possession of my mind that she was the victim of circumstances; that she
