" He
pointed out of the window to the fortress on the
hill. "It's from--the man that was shot last
week. He wrote it the night before. I promised
him I'd give it into your own hand myself."
She bent her head down. So he had written
after all.
"That's why I've been so long bringing it," the
soldier went on. "He said I was not to give it to
anyone but you, and I couldn't get off before--
they watched me so. I had to borrow these
things to come in."
He was fumbling in the breast of his blouse.
The weather was hot, and the sheet of folded
paper that he pulled out was not only dirty and
crumpled, but damp. He stood for a moment
shuffling his feet uneasily; then put up one hand
and scratched the back of his head.
"You won't say anything," he began again
timidly, with a distrustful glance at her. "It's as
much as my life's worth to have come here."
"Of course I shall not say anything. No,
wait a minute----"
As he turned to go, she stopped him, feeling for
her purse; but he drew back, offended.
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