Harrod cast a curious glance at the boy, an apprehensive one at Clark. The colonel heard every word, and—halted.
Frank stood, with a derisive smile on a very pale face, watching his commander’s back.
But Clark did not deign to turn his head. He stood there, for nearly a minute, like a statue, the officers watching him in silence. Then he slowly nodded his head, and pursued his way to his quarters.
Then the officers broke up and departed, leaving the boy adjutant standing alone. His face grew sad and thoughtful, for not one of the men who had lately fought such a battle to save him, remained near him. Even from the ranks they had witnessed the flippant gesture with which he had pointed at his commander; and every one seemed to be somewhat disgusted with him for the nonce.
With slow steps and hanging head the young officer went to his quarters in the arsenal once more.
In the spacious drawing-room of the government house sat Clark, in a new uniform, surrounded by his officers, all renovated in their personal appearance. A number of wax candles lit up the apartment, and the center-table was littered with papers. Father Gibault sat among the rest of the officers as if he had been a chaplain all his life, and the conversation was general but desultory, as if in expectation of the arrival of some one before opening business.
At last the commander spoke:
“We are all here but the adjutant, gentlemen. Doubtless he feels a delicacy about being present. Orderly, take my compliments to the adjutant, and say that we await his presence.”
The soldier disappeared, and all sat in grim silence until, fifteen minutes after, the door opened, and the little adjutant tripped into the room with his old saucy air, but without speaking, and, after saluting the colonel, dropped into a vacant chair: