“Devil a one o’ me knows his name,” replied he; “may be it’s Bony himself.”
“And how do you know he’s there still?”
“How do I know, is it? Didn’t I tie him last night?”
Curiosity to find out what Mickey could possibly allude to, induced Power and myself to follow him down the slope to the clump of trees I have mentioned. As we came near, the very distinct denunciations that issued from the thicket proved pretty clearly the nature of the affair. It was nothing less than a French officer of cavalry that Mike had unhorsed in the mêlée, and wishing, probably, to preserve some testimony of his prowess, had made prisoner, and tied fast to a cork-tree, the preceding evening.
“Sacrebleu!” said the poor Frenchman, as we approached, “ce sont des sauvages!”
“Av it’s making your sowl ye are,” said Mike, “you’re right; for may be they won’t let me keep you alive.”
Mike’s idea of a tame prisoner threw me into a fit of laughing, while Power asked,—
“And what do you want to do with him, Mickey?”
“The sorra one o’ me knows, for he spakes no dacent tongue. Thighum thu,” said he, addressing the prisoner, with a poke in the ribs at the same moment. “But sure, Master Charles, he might tache me French.”
There was something so irresistibly ludicrous in his tone and look as he said these words, that both Power and myself absolutely roared with laughter. We began, however, to feel not a little ashamed of our position in the business, and explained to the Frenchman that our worthy countryman had but little experience in the usages of war, while we proceeded to unbind him and liberate him from his miserable bondage.