As the others filed into their seats, Barry held Leila back. "We will

sit at the end," he said. "I want to talk to you."

Through her veil, her eyes reproached him.

"No," she said; "no."

He looked down at her in surprise. Never before had Little-Lovely

Leila refused the offer of his valuable society.

"You sit beside--Delilah," she said, nervously, "She's really your

guest."

"She is Porter's guest," he declared. "I don't see why you want to

turn her over to me." Then as she endeavored to pass him, he caught

her arm.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

"Nothing," faintly, "Nothing----" scornfully. "I can read you like a book. What's

happened?"

But she merely shook her head and sat down, and then the bugle sounded,

and the band began to play, and in came the cavalry--a gallant company,

through the sun-lighted door, charging in a thundering line toward the

reviewing stand--to stop short in a perfect and sudden salute.

The drill followed, with men riding bareback, men riding four abreast,

men riding in pyramids, men turning somersaults on their trained and

intelligent steeds.

One man slipped, fell from his horse, and lay close in the tan bark,

while the other horses went over him, without a hoof touching, so that

he rose unhurt, and took his place again in the line.

Leila hid her eyes in her muff. "I don't like it," she said. "I've

never liked it. And what if that man had been killed?"

"They don't get killed," said Barry easily. "The hospital is full of

those who get hurt, but it is good for them; it teaches them to be cool

and competent when real danger comes."

And now came the artillery, streaming through that sun-lighted

entrance, the heavy wagons a featherweight to the strong, galloping

horses. Breathless Leila watched their manoeuvres, as they wheeled and

circled and crisscrossed in spaces which seemed impossibly

small--horses plunging, gun-wagons rattling, dust flying--faster,

faster---- Again she shut her eyes.

But Mary Ballard, cheeks flushed, eyes dancing, turned to Porter.

"Don't you love it?" she asked.

"I love you----" audaciously. "Mary, you and I were born in the wrong

age. We belong to the days of King Arthur. Then I could have worn a

coat of mail and have stormed your castle, and I shouldn't have cared

if you hurled defiance from the top turret. I'd have known that, at

last, you'd be forced to let down the drawbridge; and I would have

crossed the moat and taken you prisoner, and you'd have been so

impressed with my strength and prowess that you would----"




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