“And he escaped unhurt after all this?” asked Classon.
“No, I never said that; he was almost hacked to pieces, and his horse had four bullets in him and fell dead, after carrying him half-way back to our lines.”
“And Conway, is he alive? Is he likely to recover?” asked Paul, eagerly.
“The doctors say it is impossible; but Charley himself declares that he has not the slightest intention of dying, and the chances are, he 'll keep his word.”
“Dear me! only think of that!” muttered Driscoll, as, with a look of intense simplicity, he listened to this discourse. “And where is he now, sir, if I might make so bould?”
“He's up at the Monastery of St George, about eight miles off.”
“The Lord give him health and strength to go and fight the Russians again!” said Terry; and the speech, uttered in a tone so natural and so simple, was heard with a general laugh.
“Come over to this table, my old buck, and we 'll drink that toast in a bumper!” cried one of the officers; and with many a bashful expression of pleasure Mr. Driscoll accepted the invitation.
“Won't your friend join us?” asked another, looking towards Classon.
“I must, however reluctantly, decline, gentlemen,” said Paul, blandly. “I cannot indulge like my respected friend here; I stand in need of rest and repose.”