He lay upon a pallet that loving comrades had made in a cabin under the shadow of the pines. His eyes shone wildly, the unnatural brightness intensified the pallor of his emaciated face. As Helen entered, he seemed to know her, and a smile lit up his wan features, a smile which Helen prized above her life. She bent low over his pillow and he whispered, “Helen, darling!” Great tears sprang to her eyes, for she, too, had seen of the travail of her soul and was satisfied. “Helen,” he murmured, “we will be married soon, in the little red church in under the oaks. I will care for you always, I will strike down your enemies as I struck down the man who smote you in the face!” His voice rose to a shriek. “He’s delirious again, madam,” Captain Dillard said sadly, passing out of the door. But her heart was happy as was the Dawn-Maiden’s when Ioskeha came. “He’s delirious now, but he knew me,” she murmured, ecstatically, “he knew me at first, and he loves me!” “Ervin, darling boy,” she whispered. “You love me, do you not, you love only me?” “I love—I love Helen—” he said, vacantly. And she clasped him again in her arms, and covered his pale face with kisses. CHAPTER XLI Hattie Corbin and Helen Brooks sat by the fire in the living room. But yesterday the news had come of the sinking of the _Housatonic_ and of the submarine torpedo with terrible loss of life on one and total loss on the other. After the first heartrendings of grief, Helen had sunk into stolid indifference to everything and everybody. The last scene between them, and her note with the hastily scribbled “It is too late,” on the back, crushed her anew at each remembrance. Only one thing had anyone dared to say to her. It was Hattie who had spoken. “Now, Helen, dear, you know how much we love the Great Cause, who give our all.” So each day only found her face more deeply lined with pain, and her sympathy with the poor, wounded fellows at the hospital more tender. One day she was in the hospital and passed by the bed of a poor patient who had just been brought in from Morris’ Island. His face was thin and haggard, and the flesh had all gone away from his bones. His right arm was shattered and one eye had been attacked by cancer. The poor fellow called weakly: “Miss, a favor, please ma’am.” “Certainly, sir. What may I do for you?” “Could you write a letter for me, Miss?” “Indeed I shall. Wait until I get the paper and ink.” A few minutes later he was telling her what to write. “It’s to Miss Annie Little—I mean Mrs. Tait Preston, at Dunvegan, North Carolina,” and at the mention of his loved one’s name, the sick man groaned. Helen was quick with attention at the mention of Dunvegan. “Dear Annie: I—am—sick——. Can’t you—come to me? I was—captured in—Virginia. About ten left. Poor Ervin—” “Ervin,” she said—“Ervin—” “Ervin McArthur, ma’am.” “Did you know him?” “Yes, ma’am, I did—poor fellow. He was the dearest comrade of us all.”