A dozen hands were upon the speaker. A dozen hands dragged him from the saddle. A dozen hands itched to close on his throat and to choke out every possibility of future insult.
But there was no need. After a bare second of feeble struggle Brinton lay inert and moveless in his captors’ grasp.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed an officer, leaning over him in wonder. “The man’s—the man’s asleep!”
CHAPTER II
DISGRACE
WINFIELD SCOTT, the “general commanding” the United States armies, sat in the high-ceiled living-room of his temporary headquarters.
Night had come—the night of the day that was to have marked so elaborate a tribute to the United States in the person of the general commanding.
The general had discarded his gaudy dress uniform in favor of a fatigue suit that left his chest unpadded and allowed far more waist room for a no longer gracefully restricted circumference. He sat at the head of a deal table whereon burned two sconces of candles.
The center of the room, where stood the table, was softly alight, but ceiling and walls were in wavering gloom.
The general was writing, handling his white quill-pen with wondrous facility, considering the size and gnarled condition of his hands.
He came to the end of a page, reached ponderously across the table for a perforated box, and carefully sanded the ink-scrawled sheet; then started on another page. His rubicund face wore a scowl, and his shaven lip-corners were almost ludicrously drawn down.