“Drunk!” sneered the general. “Drunk on a military mission. What I might have expected from one of Taylor’s men.”
“I have been talking with two or three officers who were with General Taylor last year,” ventured Captain Grant. “And they tell me Colonel Brinton is not a drinking man. His record is good and—”
“His record ends here and now,” interrupted Scott, “as far as the United States army is concerned. I am writing an account of the case to President Polk. He will indorse the action I am about to take. A drastic action such as is needed to prevent any repetition of such disgraceful conduct among American officers in Mexico. Bring the man here.”
Grant saluted and turned toward the door. On the threshold he paused. General Scott, blinking at him through the shadows, said peremptorily:
“You may go, Captain Grant. Bring him here at once.”
“Pulque is not the kind of liquor our men are used to, general,” hesitated the captain. “A man who does not know its strange effects might readily—”
“For an officer with a reputation for taciturnity, Captain Grant,” said Scott coldly, “you are wasting a great deal of breath. Bring the man here, and after that you may retire to your quarters.”
Grant saluted again and left the room.
To the general’s long-nursed wrath the well-meant intercession added fresh zest. He straightened himself in his chair, loosened his shirt at the throat, and sat staring in expectant fury at the dark gap the oblong of the open doorway made in the scarce-lighter wall.
Presently Grant’s dimly seen figure reappeared in the opening. The captain raised his hand to his fatigue cap, faced about and vanished, leaving in his place a second and taller figure.