“A suit of regimentals, and money to take me to Paris.”
“And suppose, instead of that, I turn out a corporal’s guard, and bid them shoot you in the courtyard?”
“It would be the drollest thing you ever did, all things considered,” said the other coolly, but bitterly.
The governor looked for the book he had lately consulted, found the page, handed it to the rusty officer, and watched him keenly: the blood rushed all over his face, and his lip trembled; but his eye dwelt stern yet sorrowful on the governor.
“I have read your book, now read mine.” He drew off his coat and showed his wrists and arms, blue and waled. “Can you read that, sir?”
“No.”
“All the better for you: Spanish fetters, general.” He showed a white scar on his shoulder. “Can you read that? This is what I cut out of it,” and he handed the governor a little round stone as big and almost as regular as a musket-ball.
“Humph! that could hardly have been fired from a French musket.”
“Can you read this?” and he showed him a long cicatrix on his other arm.
“Knife I think,” said the governor.