"
"Well, I know the general will appreciate your promptness. I--did not
know you had asked to see him," and Byrne looked up from under his
shaggy brows.
"I hadn't exactly, but my letter intimated as much. There is so very
much I--I cannot write about--that of course he's bound to hear,--I
don't mean you, Colonel Byrne,--and he ought to know the--facts. Now
I'll get ready at once and--see you before starting."
"Better take an escort, Plume."
"One man on driver's seat. That's all, sir. I'll come in presently, in
case you have anything to send," said Plume, and hurried again
upstairs.
It was barely midnight when Plume's big black wagon, the Concord, all
spring and hickory, as said the post quartermaster, went whirling away
behind its strapping team of four huge Missouri mules. It was 12.30 by
the guard-house clock and the call of the sentries when Wren came home
to find Angela, her long, luxuriant hair tumbling down over her soft,
white wrapper, waiting for him at the front door. From her window she
had seen him coming; had noted the earlier departure of the wagon; had
heard the voice of Major Plume bidding good-by, and wondered what it
meant--this midnight start of the senior officer of the post. She had
been sitting there silent, studying the glittering stars, and
wondering would there be an answer to her note? Would he be able to
write just yet? Was there reason, really, why he _should_ write, after
all that had passed? Somehow she felt that write he certainly would,
and soon, and the thought kept her from sleeping.
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