I am, I have
to be--what do you call it?--a non-combatant? And to remind me of what
others have to do and suffer: no, it is not fair!"

"Miss Gilchrist has the tender female heart," said Chevenix.

"Do not be too sure of that!" she cried. "I would love to be allowed to
fight myself!"

"On which side?" I asked.

"Can you ask?" she exclaimed. "I am a Scottish girl!"

"She is a Scottish girl!" repeated the Major, looking at me. "And no one
grudges you her pity!"

"And I glory in every grain of it she has to spare," said I. "Pity is
akin to love."

"Well, and let us put that question to Miss Gilchrist. It is for her to
decide, and for us to bow to the decision. Is pity, Miss Flora, or is
admiration, nearest love?"

"O, come," said I, "let us be more concrete. Lay before the lady a
complete case: describe your man, then I'll describe _mine_, and Miss
Flora shall decide."

"I think I see your meaning," said he, "and I'll try. You think that
pity--and the kindred sentiments--have the greatest power upon the
heart. I think more nobly of women. To my view, the man they love will
first of all command their respect; he will be steadfast--proud, if you
please; dry, possibly--but of all things steadfast. They will look at
him in doubt; at last they will see that stern face which he presents to
all the rest of the world soften to them alone. First, trust, I say. It
is so that a woman loves who is worthy of heroes."

"Your man is very ambitious, sir," said I, "and very much of a hero!
Mine is a humbler, and, I would fain think, a more human dog. He is one
with no particular trust in himself, with no superior steadfastness to
be admired for, who sees a lady's face, who hears her voice, and,
without any phrase about the matter, falls in love. What does he ask
for, then, but pity?--pity for his weakness, pity for his love, which is
his life. You would make women always the inferiors, gaping up at your
imaginary lover; he, like a marble statue, with his nose in the air! But
God has been wiser than you; and the most steadfast of your heroes may
prove human, after all. We appeal to the queen for judgment," I added,
turning and bowing before Flora.

"And how shall the queen judge?" she asked. "I must give you an answer
that is no answer at all. 'The wind bloweth where it listeth': she goes
where her heart goes."

Her face flushed as she said it; mine also, for I read in it a
declaration, and my heart swelled for joy. But Chev