"You can remember."
"Yes, I remember the password," Scrope replied simply. "I have cause to. 'Inchiquin' and 'Teviot'—those were password and countersign on the night which ruined me—the night of January 6th two years ago."
There was an awkward pause, an interchange of glances. Then Major
Shackleton broke the silence, though to no great effect.
"H'm—ah—yes," he said. "Well, well," he added, and laying an arm upon Scrope's sleeve. "A good fellow, Scrope."
Scrope made no response whatever, but of a sudden Captain Tessin banged his fist upon the table.
"January 6th two years ago. Why," and he leaned forward across the table towards Scrope, "Knightley fell in the sortie that morning, and his body was never recovered. The corporal said this fugitive was an Englishman. What if—"
Major Shackleton shook his head and interrupted.
"Knightley fell by my side. I saw the blow; it must have broken his skull."
There was a sound of footsteps in the passage, the door was opened and the fugitive appeared in the doorway. All eyes turned to him instantly, and turned from him again with looks of disappointment. Wyley remarked, however, that Scrope, who had barely glanced at the man, rose from his chair. He did not move from the table; only he stood where before he had sat.
The new-comer was tall; a beard plastered with mud, as if to disguise its colour, straggled over his burned and wasted cheeks, but here and there a wisp of yellow hair flecked with grey curled from his hood, a pair of blue eyes shone with excitement from hollow sockets, and he wore the violet-and-white robes of a Moorish soldier.