Never a sign of guilt in the prisoner's countenance. Proudly and indignantly he looked his General straight in the face, his cheeks red with a flush, which was not of shame, and the wild fury in his heart blazing out of his eyes.
"It is not I who have disgraced the Queen's colours; but he—he who has fabricated and sworn to a false string of lies. Rupert, in your heart alone is the knowledge of why you have done this thing. But some day you shall tell me—or die."
There was something intensely dramatic in the passionate bitterness which vibrated in the shrill boyish tone, and, as though moved by a common impulse, every one in the tent followed that threatening gesture. But the face of Rupert Devereux was little like the face of a guilty man. He looked somewhat agitated, and a good deal pained; but although he was the cynosure of all eyes, he turned never a shade the paler, nor flinched once from the passionate fire which was leaping from the eyes of the young prisoner. He seemed as though about to make some reply; but the General raised his hand.
"Remove the prisoner."
There was a sudden commotion, for, with a deep, despairing groan, and arms for a moment lifted high above his head, he had staggered backwards and sunk heavily to the ground in a dead swoon. What wonder! He was but a boy after all.
*****
"Herbert! Why, Herbert! Good God! where did you spring from? Are you invalided?"
The moonlight was streaming in through the high oriel windows of the long picture-gallery, glittering upon the armour and crossed weapons which hung upon the walls, and casting fantastic rays down the polished oak floor. Colonel Sir Francis Devereux dropped the cigar which he had been peacefully smoking, and brought to a sudden halt his leisurely perambulation of this his favourite resort. Before him, with drooping head, with sunken cheeks, and with deep black rims under his eyes, stood his son Herbert, who, only a few months ago, had departed on his first campaign, a happy, careless young sub. Was it, indeed, his son, or was it a ghost that had stolen upon him out of the gloomy shadows of the vast gallery?
"Invalided! Would to God that I was dead!" broke from the boy's quivering lips. "Father, I have brought disgrace upon you—disgrace upon our name." And he stretched out his hands towards the long line of pictured warriors, who seemed to be frowning down upon him from the wall. "Disgrace that you will never forgive, never pardon."
Like a statue of stone the proud old soldier stood while he listened to his son's story. Then, with a half-smothered groan, he deliberately turned his back upon him.