"Good night, Margaret," I replied, and whistled shrilly to hide my
emotions. Something sent her away with her eyes ashine and her face
glorious with a smile.
The dragoons clattered by, and I stood for a few minutes staring
downhill. _And so little. Not my world. And so little. Not my world_.
The words rang in my ears like a peal of bells. Then, by one of the odd
tricks the mind plays us, I remembered that I had left the Hanyards for
the work's sake, and that my love for Margaret could only be justified to
myself--the only one who could ever know it--by my work. Over the black
top there, down in the blacker valley, was the enemy, her enemy, nibbling
up the space between us as a rabbit nibbles up a lettuce leaf. I closed my
mind to the maddening chime, and started forthright to visit my picket.
The road was flush with the bare windswept summit. The crumpled ground
was matted with coarse grass, almost too poor for sheep-feed. The
camp-fire still blazed; near it a bagpipe crooned; now and again a horse
shook in its harness. The moon whipped out for a moment, and then it was
pitch dark again.
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