At the first line of the new page he paused and looked up from under his bushy, white brows, threateningly as might a charging bull. An orderly stood in the dim-lit doorway opposite him.
“Captain Grant, sir,” reported the orderly, saluting.
A grunt from Scott and the man withdrew. Presently in his place entered a thick-set officer of middle height, clean-shaven, and evidently still in the late twenties or very early thirties.
“Well?” rapped out Scott.
“He is awake, sir,” replied Captain Grant, “and quite sober again. I made the inquiries you ordered.”
“Well?” again demanded the general.
“He is Lieutenant-Colonel James Brinton of General Taylor’s staff, as he said,” went on Grant. “And he was sent here with a message from General Taylor. The message—”
“Never mind the message, sir!” broke in General Scott. “That can wait.”
“Colonel Brinton says,” continued the unruffled captain, “that he reached the outskirts of the city an hour before the time set for the celebration. He had ridden hard, having miscalculated the time.
“When he found he had an hour on his hands he stopped at a fonda to quench his thirst. They offered him pulque. He had never before tasted it, and he drank several glasses in quick succession. That is the last thing he remembers until he woke in the guard-house half an hour ago.”