“General Stark, I have only one request to make of you, in that case.”
“Umph—umph! What is it?” grunted Stark, gruffly.
“Allow your men to restore me my horse, which I see at your quarters, and let me ride back to my chief.”
“Umph—umph! Very good, very good. Have your irons off first, eh?”
“No, sir,” cried Adrian, fiercely; “not a favor from you but my own charger. I would sooner die than accept aught else from a man who deserted his country in the hour of trial.”
“Umph—umph! Gritty lad—gritty lad—like your pluck, by jingo—keep cool—better have a smith and a dinner, eh? Look faint—must have dinner.”
This was indeed true, for Adrian had not touched food for twenty-four hours. He was too angry, however, to accept the offer and turned away to the door, when Stark’s sharp, metallic voice asked:
“Well, youngster, what are you going to tell Phil, if you get there alive?”
“That you refuse to fight,” said Adrian, angrily.
“Oh, no, no—not a bit of it,” said Stark, in his quick manner; “not by a big sight, youngster. You stay with me, and I’ll show you as much fighting as any man wants, in two days.”