"
Before he finished speaking, indeed at the first glance, he saw
that Beverley, like Hamilton, was white as a dead man; and at the
same time it came to his memory that his young friend had confided
to him during the awful march through the prairie wilderness, a
love-story about this very Alice Roussillon. In the worry and
stress of the subsequent struggle, he had forgotten the tender
basis upon which Beverley had rested his excuse for leaving
Vincennes. Now, it all reappeared in justification of what was
going on. It touched the romantic core of his southern nature.
"I say, Lieutenant Beverley," he repeated, "beg the young lady's
permission to use her flag upon this glorious occasion; or shall I
do it for you?"
There were no miracles in those brave days, and the strain of life
with its terrible realities braced all men and women to meet
sudden explosions of surprise, whether of good or bad effect, with
admirable equipoise; but Beverley's trial, it must be admitted,
was extraordinary; still he braced himself quickly and his whole
expression changed when Clark moved to go to Alice. For he
realized now that it was, indeed, Alice in flesh and blood,
standing there, the center of admiration, filling the air with her
fine magnetism and crowning a great triumph with her beauty. He
gave her a glad, flashing smile, as if he had just discovered her,
and walked straight to her, his hands extended.
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