But she knew her brother well, and knew that since Graham's impetuous
outbreak he had been wavering sadly, and since Plume's parting visit
had been plunged in a mental slough of doubt and distress. Once before
his stubborn Scotch nature had had to strike its colors and surrender
to his own subaltern, and now the same struggle was on again, for what
Plume said, and said in presence of grim old Graham, fairly startled
him:
"You are not the only one to whom I owe amende and apology, Captain
Wren. I wronged you, when you were shielding--my wife--at no little
cost to yourself. I wronged Blakely in several ways, and I have had to
go and tell him so and beg his pardon. The meanest thing I ever did
was bringing Miss Wren in there to spy on him, unless it was in
sending that girl to the guard-house. I'd beg her pardon, too, if she
could be found. Yes, I see you look glum, Wren, but we've all been
wrong, I reckon. There's no mystery about it now."
And then Plume told his tale and Wren meekly listened. It might well
be, said he, that Natzie loved Blakely. All her people did. She had
been watching him from the willows as he slept that day at the pool.
He had forbidden her following him, forbidden her coming to the post,
and she feared to wake him, yet when she saw the two prospectors, that
had been at Hart's, ride over toward the sleeping officer she was
startled.
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