jump at a loaded revolver. Gallant, wasn't it?"
Vincent made a little noise in his throat like a laugh. He glanced down at Elizabeth Oliver. All he could see beneath the round hat was the curve of her cheek and pointed chin. He went on talking in a voice that shook a little.
"If I only could have shot the man in the shell-hole—put an end to him quickly, I don't think I would have minded it so. I tried to kill a mouse once when I was a kid by sticking a hat-pin into it. An older fellow dared me to. I never forgot it. I killed the young German the same way—with my bayonet. He died slow, too—like the mouse. It was awful—awful! Yet I'm expected to chat about it at dinner-tables here at home. I'm odd—eccentric because I didn't cut off some of his buttons and bring them back to pass around as souvenirs!" Vincent stopped a moment. Miss Oliver remained as silent as the rock she sat upon. How easy it was to talk to such a girl! "The young German was a father," he went on. "He had three little children—he told me so in good English. The blood came up in his throat, and choked him right in the midst—"
"Stop—stop," suddenly interrupted Elizabeth Oliver. "I don't want to hear your horrid story!"
