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will not.” Neville’s fingers close about those of his sergeant. He gives up the pretense. “I will see Lily safely back to camp tomorrow.”
    “If she is taken prisoner …”
    It is highly unlikely even on the remote chance that there will be another encounter, another skirmish. The French will surely be as little eager for a confrontation at this time of year as the British. But if she is, of course, her fate will be dreadful indeed. Rape …
    “I will see that she is safe.” Neville leans over the man who has been his respected comrade, even his friend, despite the differences in their rank. His heart is involved in this death more than his head. “She will not be harmed even if she
is
taken prisoner. You have my word as a gentleman on it. I will marry her today.”
    As the wife of an officer and a gentleman, Lily will be treated with honor and courtesy even by the French. And the Reverend Parker-Rowe, the regimental chaplain, who finds life in camp as tedious as the most restless soldier, has come with the scouting party.
    “She will be my wife, Sergeant. She will be safe.” He is not quite sure the dying man understands. The cold fingers still pluck weakly at his own.
    “My pack back at the base,” Sergeant Doyle says. “Inside my pack …”
    “It will be given to Lily,” Neville promises. “Tomorrow, when we arrive safely back at camp.”
    “I should have told her long ago.” The voice is becoming fainter, less distinct. Neville leans over him. “I should have told
him
. My wife … God forgive me. She loved her. We both did. We loved her too much to …”
    “God forgives you, Sergeant.”
Where the devil is the chaplain
? “And no one could ever have doubted your devotion to Lily.”
    Parker-Rowe and Lily arrive at the same moment, the latter hurtling down the hill at reckless speed. Neville gets to his feet and stands to one side as Lily takes his place beside her father, gathering his hand into both her own, bending low over him, her hair a curtain about his face and her own.
    “Papa,” she says. She whispers his name over and over again and remains as she is for several minutes while the chaplain murmurs prayers and the company stands about, helpless in the presence of death and grief.

    After they have buried Sergeant Doyle on the hillside where he died, Neville orders the camp moved two or three miles farther on. He walks on one side of a silent, frozen-faced Lily while Parker-Rowe walks on the other side. He has already spoken with the chaplain.
    Lily has not wept. She has not spoken a word since Neville took her by the shoulders and raised her to her feet and told her gently what she already knew—that her father was gone. She is accustomed to death, of course. But one is never prepared for the death of a loved one.
    “Lily,” Neville says in the same gentle voice he used earlier, “I want you to know that your father’s last thoughts were of you and your safety and your future.”
    She does not answer him.
    “I made him a promise,” he tells her. “A gentleman’s promise. Because he was my friend, Lily, and because it was something that I wanted to do anyway. I promised him that I would marry you today so that you will have the protection of my name and rank for the rest of this journey and for the rest of your life.”
    There is still no response. Has he really made such a promise? A
gentleman’s
promise? Because it was what he wanted? Has he wanted to be forced into doing something impossible so that it can be made possible after all? It is impossible for him, an officer, an aristocrat, a future earl, to marry an enlisted man’s humble and illiterate daughter. But doing so has now become an obligation, a
gentleman’s
obligation. He feels a strange welling of exultation.
    “Lily,” he asks her, bending his head to look into her pale, expressionless face—so unlike her usual self, “do you understand what I am saying to you?”
    “Yes, sir.” Her voice is flat,