“Listen, Tom,” she said. “And please don’t think it’s because I don’t like him.” She closed her hand on his a little. “You won’t think that, will you?” He did not answer. “You went to war, didn’t you—Tom? You had to shoot men—to kill them. Didn’t you? It was no pleasure for you, I know that. It was just your duty, and you conquered your feelings and did it. Didn’t you, Tom?” He nodded assent. “You didn’t think about your own feelings, or your own danger, did you?” “Neither did he,” said Tom, his voice breaking. But she ignored this. “The nation, the government, the law, justice,—all those things are more important than you or I. Aren’t they—Tom?” “I suppose so.” “If men cared more for their mothers and their wives and their sweethearts—listen, Tom—if men cared more for their mothers and their wives and their sweethearts than they did for their duty as citizens—Tom—there wouldn’t have been any of our boys over there.” “You—you don’t like him—I know.” “Listen, Tom—_please listen_. I like _you_, isn’t that enough? I like you so much I’m not going to be disappointed in you. Yes, I mean it. I wouldn’t have told you except for this. And if you don’t be strong and manly—a good scout—” “Scout?” sneered Tom, his voice rising in defiance. “You want me to go and squeal on the one that saved my life! Scout! How do I know he did it anyway? I can’t swear absolutely that he’s the man; I don’t _know_ he’s Anson Dyker. Anyway maybe he’s innocent. No _siree_, you don’t get me to—” “Now you’re being dishonest with yourself,” she said calmly. “If he’s innocent, he has nothing to fear.” “Then I’ll talk to him and get him to go to Kingston and—” “No, you won’t do that, Tom, because that would give him the chance to escape. If a fellow is strong enough to sacrifice his life he is certainly strong enough to sacrifice a friendship. He is not going to let sentiment stand in the way of his duty.” “A lot of sentiment _you_ have,” he sneered. “I have more than you think,” she said, looking at him earnestly. “I suppose you’d like me to take the reward too,” he sneered. “I won’t do that—I tell you right now I won’t do that—I’m not a—a—a—skunk.” “That would be for you to decide—” “Yes, well it’s already decided.” “You might show your friendship by accepting it,” she said. “Some friend!” he said in a tone of bitter mockery. “Two thousand dollars might help him at his trial,” she said, with intelligence and fairness which struck Tom. “But that’s your own affair.” “Do you think he’d take it?” Tom asked bitterly. “Tom,” she said not unkindly, “what’s the use of talking about it? If you knew what you wanted to do—” “It isn’t a question of what I _want_ to do.” “Of course it isn’t. I want you to feel just as you do—so there. I’m glad you do feel that way. You’re splendid, Tom. I always knew it.” He looked straight at her now as if she were his strength, his refuge. His eyes were haggard, strained. “Go on, what is it?” he said.