"I doubt it," said Lydia; "the captain might have thought you were Roderick Dhu."
"That man must be somewhat idiotic," said the Doctor; "in fact, all those lancers are what we mildly term unfortunates. I suspect that the captain had begun to realize the impotency of his command in front of Enfield rifles. I fancy that he was frightened, and that he blustered to hide his scare."
It was getting late. Lydia retired to her own apartment. The Doctor had smoked and smoked; his pipe had gone out, and he did not fill it again. He rose. "You can get sleep now, my boy; you have done a good day's work, or rather a good night's work sandwiched between two days. General Morell ought to reward you."
"I do not want any reward," said I.
"You would not like a commission?" he asked.
"I don't know what good it would do me," said I.
"It would do you no harm," he said; "it would be an advantage to you in many ways. You would fare better; your service might not be really lighter, but you would command more respect from others. That captain of the lancers will not think of apologizing to you; but if he knew you as Lieutenant Berwick, he would be quick to write you a note. If promotion is offered you,--and it ought to be offered,--you ought not to refuse it."
"Doctor," said I, "I am not ambitious--at least, in that way."