He saw, without appreciating in his dazed condition the significance of the action, Holman groping upon the floor for his gun, saw him feel in his pocket for ammunition. He was aware that the man was loading the gun; but he paid no heed to that in the stress of emotion that gripped him in the presence of this girl whose power over him exceeded any other influence that had ever swayed him. He saw the blood warming the pale face while he gazed at it with such strained and eager intensity, and noticed the look of distressed embarrassment in her eyes, the sudden shrinking away before his approach. There was neither dislike nor distrust in her look, only a quick, unaccountable nervousness which he attributed to the unexpectedness of their meeting, with its tragic and ugly introduction. "You shouldn't have come," she said. "You didn't come as a friend. You thought to do him an injury... I know... You hate him because of the letter I foolishly read to you. I made a mistake--but I thought I could trust you." "A damned Englishman is never to be trusted," Holman's voice broke in raspingly behind her. "He'd sell you all... Why couldn't you blasted English keep out of this war?" he demanded aggressively. "It's not your quarrel. You've come in for selfish ends, and you'll get shot to pieces for interfering when you weren't called up." Honor turned her head suddenly at a sound from his direction. Looking over her shoulder she saw the gun raised to his shoulder, his finger crooked round the trigger. "Stand aside," he commanded her roughly. She swung round quickly and faced him, standing resolutely between him and the man he would have shot down before her eyes. "I will never let you do that," she said firmly. "You can only shoot through me. We may be rebels, we aren't murderers, Heinrich." He lowered the gun, scowling at her, and answered nothing. Matheson laid a hand on her arm and pushed her aside. Something in the calm proprietary tones, despite the service she had rendered him, goaded him to fury. There was a quality in her look and manner when addressing the German that roused him to a pitch of jealous bitterness which he was unable to control. Still gripping her shoulder, he stared into her eyes. "What's he to you?" he asked harshly. "Why do you interfere? What is this German spy to you, other than an enemy?" "He has never been my enemy," she answered proudly. "We Dutch have the virtue of gratitude, and he has served our cause faithfully. Be careful how you miscall my husband to me." For a long moment he continued to stare at her, incredulous, angry, amazed; then he seized her left hand and raised it and saw, encircling her finger, the plain gold band which proclaimed her married state.