“I ask your pardon, Sir Leicester,” says the trooper, “but would you accept of my arms to raise you up? You would lie easier, Sir Leicester, if you would allow me to move you.”
“If you please, George Rouncewell; if you will be so good.”
The trooper takes him in his arms like a child, lightly raises him, and turns him with his face more towards the window. “Thank you. You have your mother’s gentleness,” returns Sir Leicester, “and your own strength. Thank you.”
He signs to him with his hand not to go away. George quietly remains at the bedside, waiting to be spoken to.
“Why did you wish for secrecy?” It takes Sir Leicester some time to ask this.
“Truly I am not much to boast of, Sir Leicester, and I—I should still, Sir Leicester, if you was not so indisposed—which I hope you will not be long—I should still hope for the favour of being allowed to remain unknown in general. That involves explanations not very hard to be guessed at, not very well timed here, and not very creditable to myself. However opinions may differ on a variety of subjects, I should think it would be universally agreed, Sir Leicester, that I am not much to boast of.”
“You have been a soldier,” observes Sir Leicester, “and a faithful one.”
George makes his military bow. “As far as that goes, Sir Leicester, I have done my duty under discipline, and it was the least I could do.”
“You find me,” says Sir Leicester, whose eyes are much attracted towards him, “far from well, George Rouncewell.”
“I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, Sir Leicester.”