"Well, Captain?" It was partly a greeting full of relief, partly an eager inquiry, as Colonel Cummings came hurrying out of his library to meet Oliver in the entry.
The latter straightened a little, but hesitated deprecatingly before taking the colonel's hand. "I've nothing to report but failure, sir," he said.
The stinging wind that had blown the command home into barracks, and scourged the humped shoulders of the men and the thin flanks of their mounts, had cut the flesh over the captain's high cheek-bones until it was red and raw. The lower part of his face was hidden under a growth that matched his drooping moustache. On his forehead and about his eyes, the skin was a dark sallow, marked by a lattice of deep lines—lines of worry and weariness.
"Nothing to report but failure," he repeated, and let the orderly pull off his stiffened overcoat.
"The troop?" asked Colonel Cummings, anxiously.
"All safe." The other hung his cap on a nail, his belt upon his overcoat.
"Thank Heaven! That storm—I was afraid. Where did it catch you?"
"On the Knife. We put up with some half-breeds. It was hard on the horses, but a rest for the men."
The colonel led the way into the library.
On his entrance, a figure in the dusk behind the stove sprang up with a questioning cry. It was young Jamieson.