At the sneering words, and the insulting look which accompanied them, my blood, already boiling, leaped into sudden fire. All the fierce hatred engendered within me by his past treatment, his cowardly insinuations, his unknown yet intimate relationship to the woman I loved, flamed up in irresistible power, and I struck him with my open hand across the lips. “You miserable hound!” I cried madly. “None but a coward would taunt a helpless prisoner. I only hope I may yet be free long enough to write the lie with steel across your heart.” Before he could move Sheridan was upon his feet and between us. “Back, both of you!” he ordered sharply. “There shall be no brawling here. Major Brennan, you will remain; I would speak with you further regarding this matter. Lieutenant Caton, take charge of the prisoner.” CHAPTER XII UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH At this late date I doubt greatly if my situation at that time was so desperate as I then conceived it. I question now whether the death sentence would ever have been executed. But then, with the memory of Sheridan's rage and my own hot-headed retort, I fully believed my fate was destined to be that of the condemned spy, unless she who alone might tell the whole truth should voluntarily do so. That circumstances had left me in the power of one whose fierce dislike was already evident was beyond question, and I had yielded to his goading to such an extent as to give those in authority every excuse for the exercise of extreme military power. Yet of one thing I was firmly resolved--no thoughtless word of mine should ever endanger the reputation of Edith Brennan. Right or wrong, I would go to a death of dishonor before I would speak without her authority. Love and pride conspired to make this decision adamant. There might, indeed, be no reason why I should not speak with utmost freedom; but as to this I could not judge, and therefore preferred the safer side of silence. The action of Brennan had impressed this upon me as a duty; had caused me to feel that I could best serve her by blotting out the adventures of the night before. Seemingly it was her own desire, and as a gentleman, an officer, a man of honor, I might not even question that decree. Deeply as these considerations would have affected me under ordinary conditions, one doubt now overshadowed them all. Was the man I struck the husband of the woman I loved? This was what I desired to know even above my own fate. I scarcely doubted, yet would not yield the slight hope I retained that it might prove otherwise. A trick of chance speech seemed to solve the problem, to answer that question which I durst not ask directly.