Betty watched them march with a thrill of patriotic pride, a hundred and
thirteen thousand men, their dark blue uniforms pouring past like the
waters of a mighty river, the December sun gleaming on their polished
bayonets as on so many icicles flashing on its surface.
Her heart suddenly stood still. There before her marched John Vaughan in
the outer line of a regiment, his eyes straight in front, looking
neither to the right nor the left. He was a private in the ranks, clean
and sober, his face rugged, strong and sun-tanned.
For a moment there was a battle inside that tested her strength. He had
not seen her and was oblivious of her existence apparently. But she had
noted the regiment under whose flag he marched. It would be easy to find
him if she wished.
When the first moment of love-sickness and utter longing passed, she had
no desire to see him. The dead could bury its dead. Her love was a thing
of the past. The cruel thing in this man's nature she had seen the first
day was there still. She saw it with a shudder in his red, half-drunken
eyes the day they met in Washington, saw it so plainly, so glaringly,
the memory of it could never fade. He was sober and in his right mind
now, his cheeks bronzed with the new life of sunshine and open air the
army had given. The thing was still there.
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