“You are right, sir: Spanish knife. Can you read this?” and opening his bosom he showed a raw wound on his breast.
“Oh, the devil!” cried the governor.
The wounded man put his rusty coat on again, and stood erect, and haughty, and silent.
The general eyed him, and saw his great spirit shining through this man. The more he looked the less could the scarecrow veil the hero from his practised eye. He said there must be some mistake, or else he was in his dotage; after a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Be seated, if you please, and tell me what you have been doing all these years.”
“Suffering.”
“Not all the time, I suppose.”
“Without intermission.”
“But what? suffering what?”
“Cold, hunger, darkness, wounds, solitude, sickness, despair, prison, all that man can suffer.”
“Impossible! a man would be dead at that rate before this.”