As I came into the court of the convent, filled with general officers and people of the staff, I was turning to ask how I should proceed, when Hixley caught my eye.
“Well, O’Malley, what brings you here?”
“Despatches from General Murray.”
“Indeed; oh, follow me.”
He hurried me rapidly through the buzzing crowd, and ascending a large gloomy stair, introduced me into a room, where about a dozen persons in uniform were writing at a long deal table.
“Captain Gordon,” said he, addressing one of them, “despatches requiring immediate attention have just been brought by this officer.”
Before the sentence was finished the door opened, and a short, slight man, in a gray undress coat, with a white cravat and a cocked hat, entered. The dead silence that ensued was not necessary to assure me that he was one in authority,—the look of command his bold, stern features presented; the sharp, piercing eye, the compressed lip, the impressive expression of the whole face, told plainly that he was one who held equally himself and others in mastery.
“Send General Sherbroke here,” said he to an aide-de-camp. “Let the light brigade march into position;” and then turning suddenly to me, “Whose despatches are these?”
“General Murray’s, sir.”
I needed no more than that look to assure me that this was he of whom I had heard so much, and of whom the world was still to hear so much more.