“Well, come along, take these letters, for I must be off; my time is short.”
“That’s more nor your nose is, honey,” said Mike, evidently piqued at the little effect his advances had produced upon the Englishman. “Give them here,” continued he, while he turned the various papers in every direction, affecting to read their addresses.
“There’s nothing for me here, I see. Did none of the generals ask after me?”
“You are a queer one!” said the dragoon, not a little puzzled what to make of him.
Mike meanwhile thrust the papers carelessly into his pocket, and strode into the house, whistling a quick-step as he went, with the air of a man perfectly devoid of care or occupation. The next moment, however, he appeared at my door, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and apparently breathless with haste.
“Despatches, Mister Charles, despatches from Lord Wellington. The orderly is waiting below for a return.”
“Tell him he shall have it in one moment,” replied I. “And now bring me a light.”
Before I had broken the seal of the envelope, Mike was once more at the porch.
“My master is writing a few lines to say he’ll do it. Don’t be talking of it,” added he, dropping his voice, “but they want him to take another fortress.”
What turn the dialogue subsequently took, I cannot say, for I was entirely occupied by a letter which accompanied the despatches. It ran as follows:—