"
"They? Whom do you mean, Rust?"
"Why, Carley, I mean the people I lost my leg for!" he replied, with
terrible softness.
"The British? The French?" she queried, in bewilderment.
"No!" he cried, and turned his face to the wall.
Carley dared not ask him more. She was shocked. How helplessly impotent all
her earnest sympathy! No longer could she feel an impersonal, however
kindly, interest in this man. His last ringing word had linked her also to
his misfortune and his suffering. Suddenly he turned away from the wall.
She saw him swallow laboriously. How tragic that thin, shadowed face of
agony! Carley saw it differently. But for the beautiful softness of light
in his eyes, she would have been unable to endure gazing longer.
"Carley, I'm bitter," he said, "but I'm not rancorous and callous, like some
of the boys. I know if you'd been my girl you'd have stuck to me."
"Yes," Carley whispered.
"That makes a difference," he went on, with a sad smile. "You see, we
soldiers all had feelings. And in one thing we all felt alike. That was we
were going to fight for our homes and our women. I should say women first.
No matter what we read or heard about standing by our allies, fighting for
liberty or civilization, the truth was we all felt the same, even if we
never breathed it.
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