“What of that Austrian soldier?” said D'Esmonde, who did not quite like the tone of either of his companions,—“is he better?”
“The surgeon says that he cannot recover,” replied Jekyl; “and for that reason I suspect that he 's in no danger.”
“Have you seen the officer to-day?” asked the priest again.
“No,” replied Norwood. “Jekyl and I twice endeavored to speak with him; but he slept half the forenoon, and since that he has been writing innumerable despatches to headquarters.”
“They say at Milan that he 'll be shot for this misadventure,” said D'Esmonde; “that he acted in contravention to his orders, or did something, I know not what, which will be treated as a grave military offence.”
“The canonico is furious with us for this delay,” said Jekyl, laughing, as he returned from a peep into the salon.
The Abbé was, meanwhile, deep in a whispered conversation with Norwood. “Ay,” said the latter, doubtingly, “but it's a serious thing to tamper with a soldier's fidelity. The Austrians are not the people to suffer this with impunity.”
“How are they to know it?”
“If it fail,—if this young fellow reject our offers, which, as a Hungarian, it is just as likely that he will do?”
“But he is not a Hungarian. I know him, and all about him.”